


Let Me Paint You a Picture

by houdini74



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Adventure, Alternative Universe - Art, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art Forgery, Blow Jobs, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22032949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houdini74/pseuds/houdini74
Summary: David is an art appraiser on the Antiques Roadshow when Patrick brings in a rare painting. But not everything is as it seems.Story is complete, new chapters will be added every morning.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 234
Kudos: 293





	1. My life is changing every day

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part adventure/suspense, part romance, part art crimes. Some good things happen then some bad things happen and then there's a happy ending.
> 
> Chapter titles are from The Cranberries song 'Dreams.'

“My grandmother left this to me.” The older woman’s silver curls bounce as she gestures excitedly to the small drawing on the easel between them. “Mr. Jackson stayed in her home during one of his painting trips and he gave this drawing to her personally when he left.”

David sighs to himself. It seems as though AY Jackson must have stayed with every family in western Canada during his painting trips, leaving a trail of stories and unsigned sketches in every attic from Thunder Bay to Calgary. He plasters on a smile for the camera. “The problem is, Mrs Farley, that the sketch isn’t signed. Unless we can connect it to a finished work, it’s probably worth a thousand dollars at most.”

A murmur runs through the audience. The line stretches away from his appraisal booth at the Canadian Antiques Roadshow across the grounds of Fort York. A trickle of sweat runs down his back beneath his black Givenchy sweater. He scans the line, looking for something that will make this day tolerable at least. At the head of the line, a young woman holds a painting of two kittens playing with a ball of string. Absolutely not. How had that made it past the initial screening? Behind her, a man in his sixties holds a small oil painting, the details are too small for him to make out at this distance. It’s probably something he found in a thrift store. For every moderately valuable piece he sees, there are dozens more that he wishes he could light on fire.

He rolls his shoulders as the woman tries to convince him about the value of drawing. Her voice is shrill. He smiles at her grimly, letting his gaze wander. _Oh. Oh that’s very nice._ The third person in line holds a large painting wrapped in brown paper. His cobalt blue shirt brings out the red highlights in his hair. His eyes are warm and David smiles involuntarily when they meet his. 

He turns back to the woman with the AY Jackson sketch. “Well. My grandmother wouldn’t lie to me. If she says this is by AY Jackson, then it is!” The woman stops just short of stamping her foot at him. Beside the camera, Chris, his producer, gives him the sign to wrap up the appraisal. The disagreeable woman won’t make the final cut for the show.

He gives her a fake smile and uses his most conciliatory tone. “I’m sure your grandmother is right. But if you want to sell this drawing, you’re going to need more than her word.”

The woman huffs at him one last time as Chris ushers her away. Chris beckons to the young woman with the kitten picture. “Two more and then you can take a break.” 

He’s been on his feet for two hours, talking to these people who are so excited about their thousand dollar paintings and the chance to be on TV. He desperately wants twenty minutes to himself to just sit on a bench somewhere, maybe in the garden that he’d seen on the way in, and not have to talk to anyone. Still...David’s eyes meet those of the man in the blue shirt again. “Three.”

Chris shrugs. “Sure, three.”

He dispenses with the next two people in short order, neither of their pieces are worth the canvas they’re painted on. Chris motions to the man in the blue shirt. Awkwardly, he shifts his painting to one arm and holds his hand out to David.

“Patrick Brewer.”

“David Rose.”

Chris nods to him that the cameras are rolling. “What have you brought today, Patrick?”

Patrick strips the brown paper off the painting and flips it around to sit on the easel. David’s breath catches in his throat. The painting is about four feet square and features stylized mountain peaks reaching into a cloudy blue sky. In the foreground, white icebergs float in a blue ocean. 

“I found this when we were cleaning out my grandmother’s attic and no one else wanted it, so…”

“And you don’t know anything about it?” David’s voice is strangled as he stares at the painting. It’s not signed, but he can tell immediately who painted it, the distinctive style should be familiar to every Canadian. 

“No. I was hoping you could tell me.” David tears his eyes from the painting to see Patrick grinning at him. “If I knew what it was, I could have stayed home.” Is he making a joke? It sounds like he’s making a joke while David stares at the most valuable painting he’s ever seen.

“Yeah. Yes. Well. It’s hard to say for sure...we’d have to do some research to establish provenance...but the style and age of the painting definitely make me think that this is a missing work from Lawren Harris.” He can’t breathe. If this is a missing Lawren Harris painting, it could make his career. 

Patrick just looks at him, not saying anything. “Is that good?”

David wants to rip the painting from the easel and take it home with him. The painting should belong to someone who understands its value, who can appreciate it. Not to someone who probably can’t tell a Picasso from a Van Gogh. He grimaces for the camera. “Um. Yeah. It’s pretty good.” David’s words still aren’t working properly. “Two years ago, one of Harris’s paintings sold for eleven million dollars, a Canadian record.” A gasp ripples through the crowd. People are peering towards them now, trying to get a glimpse of the painting.

“Oh.” Patrick takes half a step backwards. The grin on his face fades into a look of shock. At least he’s wiped the smirk off of his face, David thinks to himself. There are other things he’d like to do to take the smirk off his face. How hard would he have to kiss him before he stopped smiling? He blinks the thought away, trying to stay focused on the painting instead of the person beside him.

“This one isn’t as well-known and we’d have to verify that it is a Harris. But it could be very valuable. I’d suggest an auction estimate of five million dollars. But it could go higher on the right day.” 

“My cousins are going to be so mad. They wanted to throw it in the garbage.” Patrick’s eyes are wide, David can see tiny flecks of gold amidst the warm brown. The color reminds him of whisky or caramel or well-worn leather. He blinks at his wandering thoughts, pulling his attention back to the painting. 

“Cut.” Chris nods at David. “That’s great. David, let’s take twenty minutes.”

Now that the camera is off, Patrick looks even more shaken. He runs his hands through his hair. It’s too short, he should grow it out. God, he has to stop thinking about this man in this way. “How...how do I verify that it is what you said?”

David pulls his card out of his back pocket. “Why don’t you come to my gallery and we can take it from there?” Patrick’s smile lights up his face and David smiles back at him, happy for the excuse to see him again. 

Patrick looks at his card and sticks it in his pocket. He pauses for a second, staring at the painting like it’s suddenly dangerous. “Oh god. How am I going to get this home?”

***

No matter how many times David stares at the monthly financial projections for the gallery, the numbers refuse to change. Art appraisals and his appearances on the Antiques Roadshow are keeping the gallery afloat, but just barely. Ever since he refused to allow his parents to buy his patrons, finding buyers has been a struggle. Still, he doesn’t have any regrets. He wants to make the gallery a success on his own, without the infusion of cash from Rose Video.

His latest show opened to rave reviews and no sales. He looks at the boldly colored pieces, each one incorporating bottle caps and tin cans as a statement about consumerism and the environment. Maybe he should go in a different direction? Maybe a more traditional style would have more appeal? He tosses the financial statement down on his desk with a sigh.

The bell on the door chimes softly, a single, soft tone that echoes through the empty space. He looks up from his desk to see someone carrying a brown paper wrapped painting. They struggle with the door for a moment before coming inside. A pair of warm brown eyes peek over the top of the painting and his heart skips for a moment.

“Is this a good time?” Patrick places the painting on the floor in front of his desk, leaning it against the edge. It’s the single most valuable thing David has ever had in his gallery and it makes him cringe to think of it just sitting on the floor. 

“Here.” He clears a space on one side of the glass and chrome desk. “Set it up here.” He can’t resist peeling back the paper to see the painting again. It’s just as stunning the second time. The colors are even more vibrant under the lights of the gallery, rich blues and purples contrasting with the snowy white of the mountains and clouds. 

“You said you could help?” Patrick sounds worried, like he thinks David might refuse to help him.

He hadn’t expected to see Patrick again so soon. Most people who come on the Antiques Roadshow like to show off to their friends and family before deciding what to do with their new-found treasure. “I thought you’d maybe call first instead of hauling this across town.”

“I don’t know what to do with it.” A crease forms between Patrick’s eyebrows. “Every time I leave the house, I worry I’m going to get robbed.”

“By roving bands of art thieves?”

“Something like that.” Patrick laughs, the sound sends a shiver up David’s spine. He wants to hear that sound over and over again.

“Hmm.” He flips the painting over to see if there are any marks on the back. An old gallery sticker and a label he thinks might have been from the framing shop are stuck to the reverse. In pencil, almost too faint to make out is the title: ‘Arctic Spring.’

“So, Harris stopped signing his paintings in the 1920s, once he made a name for himself. He said he wanted the paintings to be judged as they were, without his name attached to them.” He flips the painting back over. “Not that anyone would ever think this was by anyone else.” Patrick nods along as David is talking. His attentiveness makes David flush. He wonders if Patrick would be just as attentive in bed. He has to stop this, Patrick is his client, not some random he picked up at a bar. 

“So how do we prove this is what it is?” Patrick waves at the painting. “It sounds mercenary to sell it, but, well, five million dollars is a lot of money.”

“Yeah.” He guesses that five million is a lot to someone like Patrick. Still, it’s not like the commission off of a five million dollar sale wouldn’t go a long way to help the gallery. “Well, we’ll have to research the provenance of the piece. I don’t suppose you have a family photo of Lawren Harris handing the painting to your grandmother?”

Patrick laughs again. “No. And I don’t even know where she got it. I never saw it in her house.”

David looks back down at the painting, not wanting to risk being captured by Patrick’s eyes. He could easily give everything to this man in front of him with his whisky-colored eyes and open laugh. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He turns to rummage through one of the drawers of the desk, pulling out a contract. “I’ll start working on the history of the painting and you can dig through your grandmother’s records.”

“What about…” Patrick gestures at the painting helplessly. 

“You can leave it in my storage room, it’s secure.” The gallery has a climate-controlled vault that he uses to store extra inventory.

“Good. It didn’t want to take it home on the bus.” Patrick grins at him, bright and sharp. David knows he’s trying to wind him up, but he can’t stop himself from reacting.

“What?”

“Just kidding.” Patrick smirks at him. “I took the subway.”

This is a terrible decision. He should send Patrick to find another expert, someone who can devote all of their attention to the painting instead of being distracted by the painting’s owner. Instead, he fills in the details in the contract and slides it over to Patrick. “If it’s authentic, you agree that I get to sell it for you and to pay me a commission.”

Patrick takes his time reading the contract before he signs it and hands it back to David. David holds out his hand.

“I’ll call you when I know something. It was nice to meet you, Patrick.”

***

Three hours later, the painting is still sitting on his desk. He’s photographed it and taken pictures of the stickers on the back and he should put it in his storage room where it will be safe but he can’t bear to tear himself away from its rich colors. The door chimes again, revealing his sister. 

“David!” The sound of her heels ring through the gallery, echoing in the empty space. A large sunhat and an Isabel Marant dress complete her outfit. “David you look so cute at your little desk. Like a banker or an accountant.” She boops him on the nose with her finger.

“I do not look like an accountant...what do you want?” Every conversation with his sister is annoying. He crosses his arms and glares at her.

“I need you to come to dinner with me tonight.” Alexis dances her fingers along the top of his desk, coming dangerously close to Patrick’s painting. He snatches it up and holds it awkwardly away from his body.

“Why would I do that?” His sister only shows up at the gallery when she wants something. If she’d just wanted to invite him for dinner, she would have texted.

“Stavros is in town and he brought his sister.” David rolls his eyes and turns to take the painting to the vault. Alexis trails behind him. Inside the storage room, he pulls out one of the sliding racks and hangs the painting on the pegboard inside. 

“David. This painting is nice.” Her tone implies that it’s different from the other paintings he usually sells. 

“Drink paint, Alexis.” Their bickering takes its usual comfortable shape. Sometimes he wonders if he’d miss it if he had to give it up.

“No, I like it. You can tell what it is. The little mountains and the ocean.” Again Alexis’s fingers dart worryingly close to the painting. He slides the rack back in place, out of his sister’s reach.

“Those little mountains are probably worth five million dollars. But it’s not mine, I’m researching it for someone. Which I should get back to...” He gives Alexis a pointed look.

“So will you?” Alexis plays with the charm on her cell phone, not meeting his eyes.

“Will I, what?” They both know that he’ll eventually give in, but he doesn’t want to make it too easy for her.

“Go to dinner with Stavros and his sister? C’mon David, you owe me.” 

“If anything, you owe me. Remember the time you made me have coffee with Zayn Malik. You were two hours late! I had to listen to stories about his motorcycle.” His mouth twists at the memory.

“Okay, but last week I had to have dinner with mom and dad by myself while you went to that party. That’s even worse, David.” 

“It wasn’t a party, it was for work.” He sighs. She’s not wrong, dinners with their parents are the ultimate trump card. “Which Stavros is it? The shipping pirate?” Stavros is bad news, but Alexis can’t seem to get enough of him. 

“He’s not a pirate. He just uses boats to transport cargo that no other shipping company wants to handle.” 

“That he steals from other people.” As far as David can tell, the only reason Stavros hadn’t been arrested is because he owns a yacht and goes to fancy parties, usually with his Alexis on his arm. 

“Ugh, David.” Alexis swats him on the arm, her fingertips just making contact with the edge of his sleeve.

“Fine.” The last thing he wants is to have dinner with either Stavros or Stavros’s sister, but maybe it will take his mind off Patrick. Having gotten what she came for, his sister sashays out the door. “Don’t be late this time!” She gives him an airy wave as the door closes behind her.

He arrives at the restaurant to discover Stavros and his sister sit at a table by the large windows at the back of the dining room. There’s no sign of Alexis. 

Stavros is arguing with the server about the wine. David grimaces and takes the seat next to his sister. She’s thin and blond and David thinks she might be taller than he is. She doesn’t look up from her phone when he sits down.

“I’m David.” Her eyes flick away from the screen just long enough to acknowledge his presence.

“Anastasia.” Her fake nails tap quickly on the phone. Clearly, this won’t be an evening filled with riveting conversation.

Stavros finishes his argument with the server. He flips his long hair over his shoulder. David tries to keep the look of disgust off his face. What does Alexis see in this guy, anyway? And where is she? He looks towards the entrance, hoping she’ll appear, but there’s no sign of her.

“David. How is your gallery?” Stavros makes the word gallery sound like he’s describing a child’s lemonade stand. 

“Fine. It’s fine.” He and Stavros stare awkwardly at each other. How do you make small talk with an international shipping pirate? “And how are your...boats?” Before Stavros can answer, the server returns with the wine and Stavros puts on a show of sniffing and tasting. David pulls out his phone to text Alexis.

**David:** Where are you?”

There’s no response to his text. He glares at his phone, willing her to respond, or better yet, show up in person.

The wine is evidently acceptable and their server pours three glasses. Stavros picks up the conversation. “Alexis said you found a painting on TV?”

“Mmm hmm. Well, sort of.” He doesn’t have the time or the patience to explain the Antiques Roadshow to Stavros. He takes a gulp of wine, cursing his sister.

“So, are you going to keep it?” Stavros leans back, his arm drapes casually over the empty chair beside him, but his eyes are intent.

“I’m sorry?” 

“The painting. Now that you’ve found it, are you going to keep it?” Of course Stavros would think David could keep the painting just because he discovered it.

“It...it doesn’t work like that.” Through the window he sees his sister coming towards the restaurant. She’s texting as she unhurriedly makes her way towards the door.

“If you ever have some art that is, how do you say? Too hot to handle. You can give me a call.” Stavros laughs and David gives him a tight smile at the thought of his gallery selling stolen art. “Or…” Stavros lowers his voice before Alexis comes up to the table. “Faked paintings. I can sell those too.”

“Okay, well I won’t be doing that, but thank you.”

The rest of the dinner passes with Alexis giggling as Stavros talks about his new yacht while Anastasia texts on her phone. Unable to stand it any longer, he excuses himself before dessert, claiming a headache. As he heads for the exit, he hopes that Alexis’s fling with Stavros will be short-lived so he never has to see him again.

***

Three days later, Patrick is back at his gallery. He sets a cardboard box on the corner of David’s desk. David recoils in horror as a puff of dust seeps out. “There had better be another five million dollar painting in that box.”

“No, no. These are my grandmother’s records. I thought we could look through them together.” David cringes as Patrick dusts off his hands. He shoves a box of tissues and a bottle of hand sanitizer towards him. Patrick smirks, but he uses the tissues to wipe his hands.

Gingerly, David lifts the flap of the box. A stack of dusty yellow papers peers back at him. Most of them are handwritten, the blue ink faded and hard to read. It will take hours to go through them all. Hours with Patrick. He scowls at the dirty box.

“C’mon.” He nods towards the back room he uses to prep for his gallery openings. He shrugs into the oversized dress shirt and cotton gloves that he wears when he’s handling pieces of art. He hands Patrick a second pair of gloves. Patrick grins at him. “You look very stylish.”

He finishes buttoning up the white dress shirt, smoothing the fabric down over his hips to cover as much of his sweater as possible. He glances up in time to see Patrick’s eyes following his hands. “You’re very lucky.”

“Oh?” Patrick’s eyes snap back to his.

“I don’t let many people see me like this.” Cautiously, he reaches into the box for the first handful of papers. He hands half of them to Patrick. His fingers brush against Patrick’s and he feels a shock of adrenaline, even through the cotton gloves. Together they sort through the documents. 

He sets a receipt for the purchase of a new dining room set and a car service record into a pile in front of him. Beside him, Patrick glances through a handwritten letter. “Just set those aside, we can read through them later.”

Patrick looks up from the letter. “And miss the ending to my great aunt’s story about the Christmas pageant of 1951?” He clears his throat and begins to read. 

_“...and then, Charlie McIntryre, you remember him, Charlotte and Neil’s youngest? Charlie sits down in the middle of the stage, drumming his feet on the floor. All the other children had to yell out their lines over the racket…”_

“Well, as riveting as Charlie’s future stage career might be, unless he pulls a painting out of his elf costume I don’t think that will help us.” Patrick grins and he sets the letter aside.

Two hours later, they’re about a third of the way through the box. They’ve found exactly nothing related to art or paintings or Lawren Harris in the box. There’s a small stack of letters that they’ve separated from the other documents but the rest is just garbage, a collection of birthday cards and grocery lists and home maintenance records. It’s sad if he thinks about it for too long, someone’s life reduced to a pile of meaningless papers that say nothing interesting about them. As he’s thinking about what might be left from his life, a single photograph floats on to the tabletop. He picks it up from the table and hands it to Patrick, ignoring the flutter in his stomach as their hands brush against each other. A woman in her sixties with long grey hair holds a little boy with curly reddish-brown hair on her lap. The boy’s smile is familiar. “Is that you?”

“Yeah. And my grandmother.”

“No curls now, though.” He regrets the words instantly. He should focus on their business relationship, not on imagining what Patrick might look like with slightly longer hair. He can see the curl in Patrick’s short hair and he imagines it curling around his fingers as he thrusts his hands into Patrick’s hair, his lips against Patrick’s…

“Hey!” Patrick snaps him out of his daydream and holds up a piece of paper. The excited look fades from his face as he reads the paper. “Oh, wait, nevermind. My grandfather bought four cans of blue paint in 1952.”

“Okay. I think we need a break before we contract a deadly lung infection from the dust.” He tugs off his gloves, now stained with brown dirt and sets them on a bare corner of the worktable. “There’s a coffee shop next door?”

“I...sure.” A look that David can’t decipher flashes across Patrick’s face. Of course he thinks David is asking him on a date. Of course he’s not interested in any of that. It doesn’t matter. He needs a break. And some coffee. He shrugs off his extra shirt and gestures to the door.

“After you.”

After ordering a couple of cookies along with his caramel macchiato and a tea for Patrick, they settle into a booth at the back of the coffee shop. Patrick wraps his hands around the white ceramic mug. His hands have a capable look to them, his nails are cut short. There’s a smear of white paint on the back of his knuckles. “Do you paint?” 

Patrick’s eyes narrow, just for a second, before he laughs. “Just walls. I’ve been painting my mom’s bathroom.” He rubs at the mark on his knuckles until the paint disappears.

Patrick pulls the tea bag out of his cup and sets it in the saucer. “Do you think we’ll actually find anything?”

“There’s still a long way to go. More research, paint samples, x-rays. Your grandmother’s shoddy record keeping isn’t the end of the road.”

“This whole thing makes me feel like I never really knew her, you know?” Patrick looks down at his tea. “Like she had a secret life that she never talked about.”

Before he can think about it, he reaches over and touches the back of Patrick’s hand. “I think she’d be glad you’re getting to know her now.”

Patrick looks up, a broad smile splitting his face. Energy crackles between them. “I’m glad I’m getting to know lots of things.” 

David takes a sip of coffee to cover his confusion. Patrick must be referring to the things he’s learning about the painting and his family. No one has ever been happy to learn more about David Rose. Needing to change the subject before Patrick says anything more he finishes his coffee and eats the last bite of his cookie. “We should finish with those papers.” 

Back at the gallery, they work through the rest of the box. Patrick stops a couple of times to pour over photos of his grandmother. In one photo she’s on roller skates with a group of her friends. The four of them are laughing as they hold each other steady. In another, she reclines on a beach chair, sunglasses over her eyes as she smiles at the camera.

“She looks fun.” He hands the photo back to Patrick.

“Yeah. I remember her more for baking cookies than roller skates.” Patrick’s voice trails off. “She loved to laugh, though.”

They’re almost to the bottom of the box when he finds it. An old receipt, torn around the edges, from a gallery in Brantford, Ontario. _‘Mountain landscape and ocean. $200’_

He shows it to Patrick, trying to hide the smile that wants to take over his entire face. 

“Is that the same gallery from the sticker on the back of the painting?”

“Yes. Yep. I think so.” He grins at Patrick. “This is a really big deal.”

“Congratulations, man.” Before he can blink, Patrick is hugging him, his strong arms wrapped around David’s body. He can smell a hint of his shampoo, bright and citrusy along with a sharper scent that reminds him of the art classes he took in college. He closes his eyes, just for a second, before he remembers where he is and who he’s hugging. 

“Oh. Sorry.” He pulls away, avoiding Patrick’s eyes. He shouldn’t be hugging his client, no matter how exciting it is. “I’ll just clean this up.” He straightens the piles of papers, gathering them up to go into the box. Patrick pulls aside the photos of his grandmother before David can sweep them up with the rest. 

“I, uh, there’s a woman I work with. I’ll get her started on the rest of the research.” David piles the rest of the papers back into the box and closes the lid. He slides it across the counter to Patrick and pulls off his gloves and work shirt. “I’ll, um, let you know when I hear something.”

***

The next morning, he’s at his desk trying to design the next exhibit for the gallery when the door chimes. Stevie stalks towards his desk, her olive-colored canvas bag hanging over one shoulder. “This is a big deal.”

“You look lovely this morning.” As always, her plaid shirt makes him shudder, deep inside but he’s long since given up commenting on her style choices, knowing that will just provoke her into wearing things he finds even more offensive. 

“David.” Stevie sets her bag on the floor by his desk. Its thrift store vibe contrasts with everything else in the gallery. He nudges it with his foot, trying to push it out of sight without Stevie noticing. “This painting. It’s a big deal.”

“I know.” He grins at her, glad to share his excitement with someone who will understand. “I know it’s a big deal.”

“I want to see it.” He leads Stevie back to the storage room and pulls out the painting. Just like before, it holds his attention like no other painting he’s seen.

“Wow.” Stevie seems as blown away as he was, the first time he saw it. “You’re doing paint samples and x-rays?”

“Yeah, I should have the results next week.” He’d dragged the painting to the testing lab the day before so they could x-ray it and take samples of the paint and other materials to confirm they were consistent with Harris’s other paintings.

“So, this guy just brought it into the Roadshow?” 

“Mmm hmm. Yep.” He usually tells Stevie everything, but he’s not sure he wants to talk about Patrick or the warm fuzzy feeling he gets when he thinks about him.

Like a lion tracking its prey, Stevie narrows her eyes at him. “I watched the show. He’s pretty cute. Patrick.”

“I suppose.” Patrick’s cuteness wasn’t the issue. “What? He’s my client.”

Stevie gives him a knowing look. “Aren’t they all?” 

“We aren’t doing this.” He slides the painting back onto the storage rack. “Are you interested in doing the research, or not?”

“Of course. I’ll let you know what I find out about Patrick.” Stevie grins at him. “And his painting.”

The test results show up in his inbox the following Wednesday, right on time. David stares at the email, afraid to open it. What if there’s something wrong with the painting? Patrick would be devastated. He takes a deep breath and clicks on the email.

_Dear Mr. Rose,_

_Following the completion of the tests, we can confirm the following materials are present in the sample you provided:_

_Paint: linseed oil, turpentine, titanium, cobalt, cadmium_  
_Stretcher bars: white pine_  
_Canvas: unbleached linen_

_All components are consistent with painting materials used by Lawren Harris during the period this painting would have been painted._

His hands are shaking slightly as he dials Patrick’s number. It rings three, four, five times before going to voicemail.

“Hi David, it’s Patrick.” He rolls his eyes at himself, forcing a deep breath to calm his nerves. “I, um, was just calling to tell you that the test results came back. They’re, uh, consistent with the provenance of the painting.” His voice rises as he’s unable to contain his excitement. “This is great news. Call me when you can.”

The gallery opens at eleven o’clock. When he arrives the next morning, Patrick is already waiting for him, pacing on the sidewalk outside. Before David can say hello, Patrick is asking questions about the painting. “So it passed the tests?” David fumbles with his keys and gives him a look. “Sorry. Hi. I’m just excited.”

“Hi. And yes, it passed the tests.” 

He opens the door to the gallery and flips on the lights. Patrick follows him inside, shutting the door behind them. “So, what happens next?”

“Stevie called me this morning. She was able to confirm the gallery carried Harris’s work. So, along with the receipt, it should be enough to prove he painted the picture.” He sets his bag on the chair behind his desk and leans on the edge. “She’ll send her report today. And then we send the painting and all the research to the authenticators and hope they agree.”

“God. David. This is such good news.” Patrick is almost bouncing in place. “Can I buy you dinner to celebrate?”

“You don’t have to do that.” Dinner will lead to complications and eventually to Patrick saying that they should just be friends. It’s best if he cuts things off now and keeps their relationship professional. There’s less chance of getting hurt. “Besides, it’s too early to celebrate until we know we can sell it.”

“Okay, but when we do, I’m buying you dinner.”

“Okay.” It’s easier to agree. He can find a way out of it later. “I’ll be in touch when I hear something.” There’s a flash of hurt in Patrick’s eyes as David tries to distance himself and keep things businesslike. He’ll get over it, David tells himself. It’s only because they’ve spent so much time together working on the painting.

He likes Patrick. He likes him a lot. More than he should. Once the painting has been authenticated, they’ll have no reason to see each other. The thought makes him sad, but he pastes on a smile for Patrick. “I’ll call you.” He practically pushes Patrick out of the door.

It’s been a month since he sent the painting to the Art Institute for authentication. Patrick has texted him every few days asking for updates, but he hasn’t seen him since the day they got the test results back. Several of Patrick’s texts have hinted at getting together, but David has avoided responding to him, not wanting to draw things out after the final decision comes back. 

It’s late in the afternoon when the Fedex driver comes into the gallery with a large box. He signs for it, his heart in his throat when he sees the return address. Leaving it in the middle of the gallery floor, he calls Patrick.

“Hi.” Time apart hasn’t dulled his response to Patrick’s voice. The warmth of it still sends a shiver through him.

“The Institute just sent their decision. I thought you’d want to open it together.”

There’s a long pause. “I’ll be right there.”

He paces around the gallery, too eager to sit still. He forces himself to stop in front of each painting his current exhibition. He’s halfway through his second lap of the room when Patrick comes in. He gives David a nervous smile, coming to a stop in front of the box. David hands him a box cutter and Patrick carefully slices along the seams of the shipping crate. Inside, he can see the blues and purples of the painting, wrapped tightly in clear plastic. An envelope is taped to the outside. Patrick pulls it free and stands up. “I guess this is it.”

Patrick takes the letter out of the envelope and reads aloud. “Dear Mr Rose. Upon review of the painting and the evidence provided by yourself to the Institute, we are pleased to inform you…” Patrick’s voice trails off and he stares at David, his eyes wide. “...we are pleased to inform you that in our considered opinion, the painting entitled ‘Arctic Spring’ is by Canadian painter Lawren Harris and may be authenticated and sold as such.” Patrick gives a whoop and throws his arms in the air before wrapping them around David and kissing him thoroughly. 

He doesn’t mean to. But he’s kissing Patrick back. Softly at first, a press of lips against each other before Patrick deepens the kiss, his tongue licking at David’s mouth. Patrick is smiling. The wide smile that he only has when he’s excited or especially happy. He can’t stop himself from smiling in return, the kiss becoming messy and disjointed as they laugh together. 

They pull apart, still laughing. Patrick’s kiss makes his stomach tingle as though a flock of hummingbirds are buzzing inside him. He wants to drown in the sensation, have it fill the rest of his days. Reality intrudes and the happy fizz turns flat as the weight of what just happened settles onto him. He steps back, needing to move away from the magnetic pull he feels from Patrick. “God, Patrick. I’m really sorry. That was wildly unprofessional.”

Patrick is shaking his head even as he laughs at him. “Shut up.” And he leans in to kiss David again.


	2. Nothing is as it seems

The walls of the gallery are empty except for the carefully lit painting at the far end. David stands by the gallery door, checking to make sure the lighting is correct. It needs to hold people’s attention as soon as they come in, drawing them in for a closer look. He tilts his head, satisfied that it’s perfect and moves to sit at his desk to review the final plans for the opening.

His gallery has been featured in all the major publications over the past three weeks. The New York Times sent their arts editor to do a special feature on him and Patrick and the painting. Artists are emailing him, wanting to exhibit in the gallery. As soon as he finds a minute to put a schedule together, he’ll be able to fill his exhibition calendar through to next year.

David grins to himself. He’s turned the gallery into a success. By himself. Without patrons bought and paid for by his parents’ fortune. Life is actually good. He turns the idea around in his mind, trying it on for size. The success of the gallery makes him feel light and airy, but it’s a pair of warm brown eyes that makes him warm and fuzzy inside.

As though he was conjured by David’s thoughts, Patrick comes in through the front door. He sets the coffee cup in front of him and presses a kiss to his temple. He leans into it for a second before frowning at Patrick. “What about the cinnamon bun I asked for?”

“I thought it might make you all sticky.” Patrick’s voice is low and gravelly. He presses a kiss beside David’s ear. David shivers as Patrick’s lips linger.

“I like getting sticky.”

“Do you?” Patrick’ mouth moves lower and his hands slide down David’s chest, pinning him to the chair. David gives a little wiggle of encouragement. Patrick dips his tongue into the dip of David’s neck, he tilts his head back to give him better access.

Abruptly, Patrick pulls away, giving him a messy kiss on the cheek. “Well, there’s no time to get sticky now, we’ve got a big day ahead. I brought you a scone.”

David whines as Patrick sets the paper bag from the cafe in front of him. “I hate you.”

“Do you, though?”

By the time seven o’clock rolls around, the line outside the gallery stretches out of sight past the windows and down the street. David swallows down his nervousness about the exhibit. What if people are disappointed to only see one painting on display? What if they don’t like it? What if bad reviews outnumber the positive press he’s received over the past few months? Sensing his anxiety, Patrick squeezes his hand. “David. It’s going to be fine.”

He smiles tensely. His anxiety about the gallery is momentarily displaced by anxiety about Patrick. He keeps expecting Patrick to tell him he’s made a mistake, that they shouldn’t see each other anymore, but he shows up every day with kisses and coffee, slipping into David’s life like he’s always been there.

“Do you think we should have ordered more food and wine?” Patrick’s voice breaks into his spiralling thoughts. He’s insisted on helping with the setup for the opening, even though David has reminded him repeatedly that he’s the client and that he doesn’t have to help. Naturally, Patrick simply ignores him.

“Most people won’t stay long.” Most people will want to say they’ve seen the painting, they won’t want to linger. He straightens the line of the tablecloth on the wine and cheese table one last time. “Are we ready to do this?”

Patrick nods. “Open the door.”

The line of people fills the gallery. He’s cordoned off access so people can’t get too close, but there’s still a crush of people in the gallery. A couple standing apart from everyone else catches his eye. They’re both wearing poorly fitting suits, blue for her and tan for him. Her reddish black hair is cropped close against her dark skin and she stands with her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side as she glares at the painting. Beside her, the man is grinning broadly, his smile accented by his moustache. He nudges the woman’s arm and points to where David and Patrick are standing.

Something about the pair of them makes David uncomfortable, but before he can dwell on it, his sister is making her way through the crowd towards him. “David! There are so many people here!” She gets close enough to give him a couple of air kisses. He scowls at her in response.

“That’s kind of the point of an opening. What are you doing here?” His sister has never been to an opening at his gallery in the entire time he’s owned it. He sees her eyes flick to Patrick and he suddenly has a good idea why she’s come this evening.

“Can’t I stop in to see how you’re doing?” His sister holds her hand out to Patrick. “Hi, I’m Alexis, David’s sister.” 

“Nice to meet you, Alexis. I’m Patrick” Alexis leaves her hand in Patrick’s until David glares at her. She slowly extracts her fingers from Patrick’s. His boyfri--, no, not that. The man he’s currently kissing a lot and sleeping with a little less than that, looks bemused as he disentangles himself from Alexis. 

Alexis peers past the crowd in front of the Harris painting. “Oh, it’s the painting with the little mountains! You didn’t tell me that was Patrick’s painting.” 

“I did tell you that, you just didn’t listen. Like usual.” He mutters the last two words under his breath and his sister pretends not to hear him. 

“And you just found it? In a dirty, smelly attic?” She turns her attention back to Patrick, her fingers dance casually up his arm. 

“Well, it wasn’t smelly, but yes.” Patrick smiles at Alexis like he’s amused, but his body is tense. His sister’s aggressive flirting often has that effect on people. 

“Okay, you got what you came for.” He makes a shooing gesture at his sister. “It’s time to go.”

“Fine, David. But you always want to meet my boyfriends.” 

“I don’t want to meet your boyfriends. I feel like I have to meet your boyfriends because you date mob bosses and criminals and I might need to file a police report.” 

“Ugh.” Alexis scoffs at him. “Stavros isn’t a criminal.”

Before their squabble can dissolve into a child’s game of ‘is not-is too’ in the middle of his gallery, Stevie appears at his side. “Is this a private argument or can anyone join in?” She’s traded her usual plaid shirt for a knee-length black dress. 

“Nice of you to join us.” 

“I couldn’t miss the free wine.” Stevie raises her glass to him, raising an eyebrow. “What are we fighting about?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.” David glares as he and his sister speak in unison. Alexis gives a final huff and stalks out of the gallery. 

He can’t resist calling after her. “Byyeee.” 

“You must be Patrick.” Stevie holds out her hand. “Stevie.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s all true.” Stevie takes a sip of her wine. “I, on the other hand, have heard almost nothing about you.”

Patrick shrugs, a cute roll of the shoulders that makes David want to pin him down and make him squirm. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Hmm.” Stevie considers him, her lips pursed.

“Okay.” He can’t take this anymore. “Thank you for coming, but this is an art opening for a painting. That one, right over there.” He waves at the Harris. The crowd has thinned out a little. “It’s not a screening of my boyfriend, so if you’re not here to see the painting, I think we’re done here.”

Both Stevie and Patrick are staring at him, identical disbelieving smirks on their faces. He thinks back through what he said. _Oh._ “That’s right, I said he’s my boyfriend.” He glares at both of them, almost pulling it off before his mouth quirks to one side. A broad grin on his face, Patrick pulls him down for a quick kiss. 

“Okay, if this is what’s going on, I’m going to look at the painting.” Stevie knocks back her wine and sets her glass on a nearby cocktail table before sauntering through the crowd towards the painting. 

“So, boyfriend, hmm?” Patrick wraps an arm around him and rests his chin on his shoulder.

“If you’re going to give me a hard time about it, then I’ll take it back.”

“Never.” Even through his heavy sweater, he can feel the press of Patrick’s lips against his shoulder. 

By nine o’clock, the gallery is empty, the last of the wine and cheese has been cleared away. He stands in front of the painting. It glows beneath the gallery lighting. “Well, this was a success.” Patrick comes up beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulder, leaning into him. David pulls him closer, sliding his lips along Patrick’s hairline.

“I’d say so, yes.” He tilts Patrick’s head back and kisses him, lazily. Patrick hums into the kiss, his fingers toying with the hair at the back of David’s neck. 

“I should go.” Patrick steps away reluctantly. David pulls him back, giving him a quick kiss, teasing him with a lick to his lips. “Thanks for this.” Patrick gestures to the empty gallery. “I...I couldn’t have done it without you.”

With a final peck to David’s lips, he’s gone, the gallery door closing softly behind him. With one last look at the painting, he flips off the lights and turns on the security system. “I couldn’t have done it without you, either.” 

***

David shifts in his seat. The chairs in the auction house are uncomfortable, but the thin padding and upright backs aren’t the only reason he can’t sit still. The room is packed. He hopes that some people are there to bid, not just to watch the sale of a previously undiscovered painting. Patrick’s arm rests along the back of his chair. He fidgets again and Patrick’s hand grasps his shoulder, grounding him. 

“Up next is Lot #59, a newly discovered piece by Lawren Harris entitled ‘Arctic Spring’.” The auctioneer gestures to the painting, which is hanging on the wall behind him. He makes a note on his sheet and surveys the room. “The bidding will start at three million dollars.”

Before the auctioneer has finished speaking, a hand goes up at the back of the room. Around the edge of the room, multiple buyers are on the phone, quiet chatter comes from the bank of phones as agents relay the status of the auction to their buyers.

“I have three million. Do I see a bid for four million dollars?” The auctioneer leans towards the phone bidders to his right. A woman on the phone raises her hand.

“Four million dollars.” The auctioneer confirms the bid before looking around the room again. 

David leans over to Patrick. “It could be Steve Martin. On the phone.”

“What?” 

“He’s one of the biggest collectors of Harris’s works.” Patrick gives him a wide-eyed stare as the auctioneer continues.

“Do I have 4.5 million?” The auctioneer waits as the agent at the back of the room talks to their buyer. David looks at the other agent, she’s having an intense conversation with her buyer. Finally, the agent at the back of the room raises his hand and the auctioneer turns back to the first bidder.

“Sometimes the person who’s bidding is in the room.” He nods sideways at a man two rows ahead of them who’s talking on his cell phone.

At the side of the room, the agent holds her hand level with the floor, indicating her buyer is still interested. After a lengthy conversation, she raises her hand into the air.

“4.5 million. Do I see five million?” The auctioneer turns his gaze to the man at the back of the room, staring at him intently until he raises his hand.

“I thought this would be louder. With more yelling and stuff.” Patrick looks back and forth between the two bidders. The woman at the side is holding her hand flat again as she waits for her buyer to decide. 

“Paintings aren’t livestock.” 

They’ve missed a couple of bids and the bidding is back with the man at the back of the room. He raises his arm to signal his latest bid.

“5.6 million dollars. 5.7 million to the buyer on my right.”

“Holy fuck.” Patrick whispers under his breath as the size of the bid hits him. After a long conversation the woman raises her hand. At the back of the room, the agent shakes his head and puts down his phone. The auctioneer looks around the room.

“Do I have any additional bids?” He surveys the room. “We’re selling now to the phone bidder on my right at 5.7 million dollars. And sold for 5.7 million. Thank you very much.” The agent holds up her number. “Sold to bidder L0067.”

Patrick sags against David’s shoulder. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will take a short break and resume with Lot #60 in fifteen minutes.”

“C’mon.” David squeezes Patrick’s leg and walks to the back of the room where Carly, the coordinator for the auction house is sitting at a table by the door.

“Congratulations, David. That painting was quite a find.” Carly offers her hand and a big smile. 

“Thank you.” More than the money, the discovery and authentication of the painting will put his gallery on the map. “This is Patrick...Brewer. It’s his painting. It was his painting.”

Carly offers her hand to Patrick. “Congratulations, Mr Brewer. You were very lucky to have David helping you with this discovery. There are so many forgeries on the market these days that the authentication process is even more difficult than it used to be.”

Patrick laughs and it has an uncertain edge to it. “Yes, I’m very lucky to have found David.”

“Well, I’ll let you know when the funds have been transferred.” Carly smiles warmly at them both. “Congratulations again.”

He pulls Patrick outside, both of them laughing a little. He’s still smiling when Patrick kisses him, his lips pressing against David’s teeth as he tries to contain his smile. Patrick’s hands find his hips beneath his sweater and he tugs them together. He slides his arms around Patrick’s neck, his smile is consumed by the pressure of Patrick’s lips.

He pulls away just far enough to murmur into Patrick’s ear. “I guess you’re okay with how things turned out?” Patrick is silent and he frowns, worried Patrick is upset that the painting didn’t make more. “I know I said it could make more on a good day, but 5.7 million is very good and with the buyer’s commission it’s more like seven million…”

“David.” Patrick’s hands cup his face to stop him from talking. “It’s better than I ever imagined.”

David has to kiss him again. There’s an urgency to it this time, one of Patrick’s hands slides into the hair at the back of his neck, making him whine with a mixture of annoyance and desire. “We...we need to leave before they call security.” He’s out of breath, like he’s run a marathon. “Sotheby’s probably doesn’t approve of PDA in their parking lot.”

Patrick laughs at him again, but he takes David’s hand and drags him towards his car. They’re halfway across the parking lot when Patrick comes to a stop. “Is that something I should be worried about?”

“What? Sotheby’s security?” He’s lost the thread of the conversation, probably when he was kissing Patrick.

“No, forgeries. Is that something I should worry about?” Patrick frowns at him as he digs his keys out of his pocket.

“That depends, did you forge that painting?”

“Yes, I took a class at the community centre and now I recreate Canadian masterpieces in my spare time.” Patrick smirks at him.

“Very funny.” Patrick presses the button on his key fob to unlock the car. “The Institute has authenticated it. And as they will be happy to tell you, they never make mistakes.”

Patrick slips his arms around David’s waist, pressing him against the side of the car. “Am I allowed to buy you dinner now?”

He rolls his eyes at Patrick. “Do you think you can afford it?” The weight of Patrick’s body against his is intoxicating, he relaxes into it, looping his arms around Patrick’s neck. Patrick kisses his neck, his fingers creeping under the hem of his sweater. David’s eyes slip closed as his head thunks backwards against the car. He can feel Patrick’s breath on his ear. 

“And after dinner...dessert.” He shivers as Patrick steps away. “Get in the car, David.” Patrick’s voice is rough and firm. He bites back a soft whine and slips into the passenger seat. 

Patrick takes him to an Italian restaurant down the street from his gallery. It’s one of his favorites. David is reasonably certain that the owner’s grandmother still works in the kitchen, supervising the handmade gnocchi and sampling the sauces. Their server brings their wine. He takes a sip. “What are you going to do with the money?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” Patrick sounds almost confused by the question. “Pay off my parents' mortgage? Buy a house? Start an investment account?” Under the table, Patrick’s foot slides along his ankle. “How do you spend your money?”

“Traditionally?” He gives Patrick a quiet smirk as his foot moves a little higher. “On clothes. And drugs. And buying things for other people.”

“I think I’m going to need some other ideas.” 

“Mmm.” He’d hoped that being in a relationship with Patrick might make him less distracted by him, but if anything, it was worse. Patrick’s foot hooks around his ankle and all he can think about is what might happen after dinner.

Patrick plays with his cutlery for a second, aligning it with the edge of his napkin. “I, uh, brought you something.” Patrick pulls a rectangular parcel out of the pocket of his jacket. The wrapping paper is a deep dark blue with lighter blue stripes running through it. David can’t help but notice that it matches Patrick’s shirt and jacket. 

“You didn’t have to…” He’s not sure that they’re at the gift-giving stage of their relationship. 

“Open it.” Patrick pushes the present across the table. 

He slides his fingers under the tape, freeing the edges of the paper. The backside of a picture frame emerges. He flips it over. Biting his lips together, he looks at Patrick. 

“It’s the receipt. From when my grandmother purchased the painting. I wanted you to have it.”

“Patrick.” He reaches across the corner of the table to cup the back of Patrick’s neck. He kisses him softly, jumping when their server clears his throat next to him. Reluctantly, he lets go of Patrick. Once the server has gone, he places his hand overtop of Patrick’s, tangling their fingers together on the table. 

Patrick runs his thumb along the back of David’s knuckles. “Come home with me tonight.” His voice is low and raspy. 

“You haven’t even bought me dinner yet.” The words die on his lips when he sees the heat in Patrick’s eyes. He swallows roughly. “Yeah, yes.”

Somehow they make it through dinner. Patrick keeps touching him, his fingers whisper along the back of his hand. His hand rests on David’s leg. His knee knocks against David’s. It’s like he’s being electrified, one small touch at a time. 

Outside the restaurant, he spins and pushes Patrick against the wall, holding him in place. Patrick grins at him, his eyes dark. “Are you sure you want to do this here?” 

“Stop talking.” He kisses Patrick, letting his desperation show, biting back a moan as Patrick kisses him back hungrily. When he pulls away, Patrick’s lips are red and wet. He reaches out and strokes his thumb across them. Patrick whines quietly in the back of his throat. “Let’s go.”

He’s glad he’s not driving, although he’s not sure that Patrick should be either. At every stoplight, Patrick places his hand on his thigh, inching higher every time. Deliberately, he spreads his legs wider, chasing Patrick’s touch. Patrick inhales sharply and the sound vibrates through him. 

Patrick pulls into his driveway without crashing the car. His hand falls back to David’s leg. He rests it at the top of David’s thigh, the tips of his fingers inch along David’s inseam. David tips his head back against the headrest. His jeans are too tight and his body is on fire. “Patrick...we need to go inside. Like, now.”

With a last scrape of his nails against the fabric of David’s jeans, Patrick pulls his hand away. David fumbles with the clasp of the seatbelt, cursing softly until it comes free. Getting out of the car, he feels every movement against his swollen cock, making him whimper in frustration. Patrick is doing his best to unlock his front door. He pulls Patrick’s hips against his, sighing at the feel of the pressure of Patrick’s ass against his dick. He presses them together even more firmly. With a curse, Patrick drops his keys. “Fuck. David…”

“Mmm hmm?” He spreads his hands across the front of Patrick’s hips. From the tension in the fabric of Patrick’s jeans, he can tell Patrick is just as hard as he is. 

“I need you to stop for two seconds.” Patrick’s voice is high and reedy. “Or else we’re going to end up doing things on my doorstep I don’t want my neighbors to see.”

He pulls his hands away from Patrick’s hips. When Patrick bends down to retrieve his keys, he can’t resist running his hand over the swell of Patrick’s ass. Patrick’s breath hisses between his teeth as he finally forces his key into the lock. The door swings open and Patrick pulls him into the darkened hallway, slamming the door behind them.

There’s just enough light for him to see the flash of Patrick’s eyes before Patrick pushes him back against the wall. His leg catches the edge of the hall table and a pile of mail slithers to the floor. Patrick’s hands press his hips to the wall. Patrick’s mouth is hot and demanding against his. His tongue licks at David’s lips once before sliding inside. He steadies his hands on Patrick’s hips, pulling Patrick’s body into his own, a whine escapes his lips as Patrick’s clothed cock rubs against his own.

Patrick’s teeth find the side of his neck. His head hits the wall with a solid thunk as he brings one hand up to cradle the back of Patrick’s head. Patrick’s tongue finds his earlobe. “You know, I have a perfectly good bedroom just down the hall.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one holding me against the wall.” He kisses Patrick roughly. Patrick’s hands find his and he steps back, pulling David away from the wall and down the hall.

In his bedroom, Patrick flips on the bedside lamp. It casts a warm glow over the grey bedspread and teak furniture. David just has enough time to mentally approve of the slate and mahogany color scheme before Patrick is kissing him again. Patrick’s hands work their way under the hem of his sweater, they’re cool against his hot skin, the contrast makes him shiver. Patrick grins against his lips and tugs gently at his sweater. “Off.”

He pulls off his sweater, folding it and draping it over the back of the chair by Patrick’s bed. Patrick’s hands are on him as soon as he’s done, ghosting over his bare chest, skimming over his nipples, tracing the line of hair below his belly button. He stands still until his skin is vibrating from Patrick’s touch and he can’t stand it anymore. With a quick movement, he grasps the hem of Patrick’s sweater and yanks it up over his head, tossing it on the chair beside his own. 

He spins Patrick around so his naked back is pressed against him. His mouth finds the sensitive skin at the notch of Patrick’s shoulder, he licks it gently. Patrick quivers beneath him, whining as he bites gently, sucking a bruise into his skin. Patrick’s hand grips the back of his head, tightening in his hair and holding him in place. He wraps an arm around Patrick’s chest, his fingers brushing Patrick’s nipple, even the soft touch makes Patrick buck against him.

“God, David.”

He hums in Patrick’s ear, his free hand sliding down his chest to cup Patrick through his jeans. Patrick’s hips jerk again and David alternates the soft touch on his nipple with a squeeze to his cock. Patrick’s breath is ragged in his ear and his grip on David’s hair is just the right side of painful. Patrick’s free hand grasps the hand on his cock and David stills his rhythm for a moment. Patrick rocks into him even as his hand squeezes David’s.

“Don’t stop.”

Patrick’s hand joins the rhythm, the two of them squeezing and rubbing Patrick’s dick through his jeans. His own cock is aching and swollen and he thrusts his hips forward, eager for friction against Patrick’s ass. Patrick obliges by grinding into him. Someone is moaning and Patrick is panting in his ear, harsh and loud. 

Patrick’s hands fall away and David can feel him fumbling with the button on his jeans. He gives Patrick a firm squeeze and Patrick’s hips jerk forward again. “You’re not helping.” 

“Seems like I’m doing just fine.”

He leaves off the spot on Patrick’s neck, giving it one last lick and runs his tongue along the outside of Patrick’s ear. Patrick has undone his jeans, David slips his hand into his underwear, wrapping his fingers around Patrick’s length. Patrick is trying to take off his pants, David gives him a bit of space, not loosening his grip on Patrick’s cock. As soon as Patrick is free of his clothes, he pulls him back against him, Patrick’s gasp when their bodies meet reverberates through him. 

“What do you want?”

“You could take off those pants.” How is Patrick so sassy even with David’s hand wrapped around his cock? He gives him a warning squeeze just to enjoy the feeling of Patrick bucking into his hand. Regretfully, he lets Patrick go long enough to undo his own pants and slide them off. Patrick turns to sit on the bed in front of him, resting back on his elbows and watching David through hooded eyes.

He slides his hands up Patrick’s thighs, giving Patrick a messy kiss before sinking to his knees. “Okay?”

“God yes.” 

He kisses his way up Patrick’s inner thigh. Patrick’s hands come to rest in his hair and he hums in approval. He kisses the base of Patrick’s cock before licking a stripe to the tip. Patrick’s hands pull on his hair as he takes the head into his mouth, his hips twitch as David takes him fully into his mouth. 

Patrick is making high-pitched panting sounds, his breath coming more quickly as David increases his pace. His own cock twitches in response and he jerks himself off, matching the rhythm of his mouth on Patrick’s cock. Patrick’s hands clench in his hair and he’s coming, thrusting into David’s mouth, the feel of it setting off David’s own orgasm. 

He rests his head against Patrick’s leg. Patrick’s hands are petting his hair softly. After a long moment, he lifts himself to his feet, his knees protesting at being in that position for so long. “Second door on the left. The washroom.”

When he comes back, Patrick has pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He hands a second set to David with a raised eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather leave?”

“No.” For once, it’s true. He wants to curl up with Patrick where it’s warm and safe. He pulls on Patrick’s clothes, they’re tight on his larger frame but still more comfortable than sleeping in his own clothing. 

Patrick swings his legs off the bed and stands up. He gives David a soft kiss, cupping the back of his neck with one hand. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?”

“I thought I’d make some cocoa.” Patrick opens the bedroom door and flips on the hall light. 

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” He follows Patrick down the hall to the kitchen, blinking against the bright lights.

“Is that the only reason?” Patrick smirks at him, letting his eyes trace the line of his body. His cheeks heat up and he looks away. He sits on one of the high-backed stools at the island, watching as Patrick bustles around the kitchen.

He expects Patrick to make instant cocoa from a tin, but he pulls out a pot and mixes the milk, cocoa and sugar together, stirring as it comes to a boil. It’s cozy and warm in the kitchen and his body is relaxed from earlier. Patrick sets a mug of cocoa in front of him, steam rises from the top of the cup.

“I’m really glad you were at the Antiques Roadshow that day, David.”

He can’t help but try to joke away Patrick’s sincerity. “Mmm. I want you to know that I rarely get this involved with most appraisals.”

“Glad to hear that I don’t have to worry about you running off with a hoard of painting-toting grandmothers.”

“Age discrimination is incorrect.” He grins at Patrick over his mug of cocoa. “I once dated Helen Mirren and it was the wildest two weeks of my life.”

“Hmm. Challenge accepted.” Patrick is teasing, but the words give him a thrill nonetheless.

The yawn hits him without warning, the hot cocoa and the warmth of the kitchen making him sleepy. Patrick takes his mug and sets it in the sink. He tugs David out of his chair and tangles their fingers together. “Let’s go to bed.”

He stands awkwardly by the side of the bed as Patrick throws back the covers. He’s never spent the night like this before. 

“What are you doing?” Patrick pulls back the covers and looks at him expectantly.

“I, um, nothing.” He crawls in beside Patrick. Before he can think about calculating the appropriate distance that should remain between them, Patrick wraps an arm around his chest, pulling him close. He nuzzles at David’s ear, humming softly. He lets himself relax back into Patrick, drifting off to sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, Patrick is gone, but he thinks he can hear domestic sounds coming from the kitchen. He slides out of bed, looking for the bathroom. He could have sworn that Patrick’s bathroom was the second door on the right, but when he flips on the light, he finds himself in a much larger room. It’s a studio, paintings cover the walls and lean on the floor. An unfinished work sits on an easel in the middle of the room surrounded by tubes of paint and paintbrushes. 

He recognizes most of the paintings. The Group of Seven is well represented along with Emily Carr and Tom Thompson. He spies Chris and Mary Pratt on the far side of the room. And there are European masters. Vermeer, Van Gogh. He spins around, trying to take it all in. 

There’s a soft sound behind him as the door snicks closed. Patrick leans against it, clad in his t-shirt and striped sleep pants. His arms are crossed casually in front of him, but David can see the tension running through him.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

It occurs to David that Patrick is blocking the only exit from the room. He tries not to think about what that means. “The Lawren Harris painting. It was you. You painted it. It’s a fake.”

Patrick inclines his head, but he doesn’t say anything. His face is unbearably sad and for a second David wants to comfort him. He clenches his hands at his sides instead. “You...oh god...I verified that painting for you. I sold it. If anyone finds out, they’ll think I’m involved.”

His knees feel weak. “I feel sick.” He stumbles to the couch at the side of the room. “You set me up.”

“I didn’t mean…” Patrick clears his throat and his eyes move away from David’s. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”

“Which part?” His voice is shrill, but he doesn’t care. “The part where you forged a five million dollar painting? Or the part where you made me your fall guy? I could be arrested. Can you imagine this in prison?” He gestures to himself.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you.” Patrick’s eyes meet his again and it’s like being burned.

“That’s not fair. For you to say that.” His voice is raw and Patrick flinches at the sound. 

“No.” 

He stares at Patrick until he can’t stand it anymore and puts his head in his hands. 

“What now?” His voice is muffled. There’s no answer. He looks up. Patrick has opened the door and he’s standing by the easel, his hands playing with a paintbrush. 

“I’m sorry, David Rose.” His voice is silk and steel. David lifts himself off of the couch and without another word, he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I promise this has a happy ending.
> 
> Steve Martin really is the leading collector of Harris's works, which I thought was very funny given his friendship with Eugene and Catherine.


	3. The person falling here is me

David staggers home from Patrick’s. He should have known that everything with Patrick was too good to be true. The painting, the auction, their relationship. It’s just like all the other times. Except this feels even worse. He curls up in bed, finishing an entire pint of ice cream before he pulls the covers over his head with a whimper. 

When he wakes up, it’s nearly noon. By the time he stumbles into the gallery it’s almost two o’clock. He pulls off his coat, something thunks against the back of his chair when he takes it off. Reaching into the pocket, he finds the framed receipt Patrick had given him at dinner. With a snarl, he sets it face down on the corner of his desk.

Like a kid with a loose tooth, he can’t stop poking at the Patrick shaped wound inside him. He was the one who had appraised the painting; he was the one who had trusted Patrick. He was a terrible judge of people. And, apparently, a terrible judge of art.

Artists and reporters have been phoning and emailing the gallery constantly since he’d shown Arctic Spring in the gallery. Artists that he’s never dreamed of approaching have offered to exhibit and newspapers and magazines across the country want to profile him. Unable to bear the thought of pretending that Patrick’s forgery is real, he can’t face the thought of returning any of their calls.

He sits in his desk chair, head in his hands, a raging headache pounding behind his eyes. He can’t comprehend how everything went so badly so quickly. Yesterday he’d made the biggest sale of his career and now it has turned to ashes, just like everything in his life.

He’d trusted Patrick. Maybe even loved him a little. A lot, an unhelpful voice in the back of his mind replies. He misses him terribly. He looks at the picture frame. He should just throw it away. It’s probably a fake, just like the painting.

The door chimes. He looks up, hoping that it might Patrick. Dreading that it could be. Instead, the man and woman who’d been acting so strangely at the opening come into the gallery. Like before, each of them are wearing off-the-racks suits in shades of blue and beige. The man comes up to his desk while the woman prowls around the edge of the gallery like a bloodhound sniffing for clues.

“Are you David Rose?” The man is unnaturally chipper. The woman merely stares at him from across the room.

“That’s me.” Something about the pair makes him nervous. He stands up, resting awkwardly behind the desk, but wanting to be on his feet. The man flashes a badge at him, confirming his fears.

“I’m Detective Butani and this is Detective Lee. If you don’t mind, we have a few questions.” Detective Lee abandons her perusal of the room and comes to stand at the side of the desk, kitty corner to her partner. David can’t see them both at once so he’s forced to look back and forth between them. 

“This, uh, this isn’t a good time.” He looks around the gallery, hoping an excuse will materialize from thin air. The headache spikes behind his eyes, making it hard to concentrate.

“We could come back. With a warrant.” The woman, Detective Lee, makes it sound like a warrant is equivalent to being found guilty. She taps her fingers on the edge of his desk, he can see the fingerprints on the glass.

He sighs. “It’s fine.” He forces a smile, knowing it’s more of a grimace. “What can I do for you?”

Detective Lee opens her notebook. “You sold a painting yesterday.”

Nausea rises in his throat, he can taste the sharp acidity of it at the back of this tongue. “Technically, Sotheby’s sold it.”

“Sure.” Detective Lee stares at him. “But you discovered it, and how do they say, ‘authenticated’ it. Why don’t you tell us about that?” It’s not a question.

For the briefest of seconds he thinks about telling them what he knows about Patrick. But it’s too late. They will never believe that he and Patrick weren’t in this scheme together, that he hadn’t known about Patrick’s forgery. 

He recounts the story of Patrick’s grandmother. The penalties for lying to the police are bound to be less than the time he’d face for art fraud, so it doesn’t matter at this point. Detective Butani nods sympathetically as he talks but Detective Lee watches him carefully. He feels the weight of her gaze even when he looks away.

“How’s business?” He breaks free of Detective Lee’s gaze, but he can feel her watching him from the side as he turns to Detective Butani.

The non sequitur catches him off guard. “I’m sorry?”

Detective Butani waves his hand at the paintings on the walls. “Your gallery. How’s business?”

“It’s fine.” It would be a lot better if art forgers weren’t setting up him to sell fake paintings. 

“See, we did some research. You used to sell out every show and then one day. Poof. No more sales.” Detective Butani looks at him intently. David isn’t sure why he thought he was the nice one. “Rumor is that your parents cut you off.”

“It’s just a bit of a downturn. We’re regrouping.” He crosses his arms and then uncrosses them, not wanting to look defensive.

“Oh.” Detective Lee checks her notes. “I understand that you and Mr Brewer are in a relationship?”

“Were.” He swings back in her direction and smiles at her tightly. He wishes he’d taken something for the headache but taking drugs in front of two police detectives, even legal over-the-counter drugs, doesn’t seem like a good idea.. “ _Were_ in a relationship.”

“And now you’re not?” Her face is expressionless in a way that David could never hope to achieve. For a second he hates her, hoping it doesn’t show on his face.

“No.” The single word is all he can manage. Naturally, it’s not enough to dissuade her questions.

“Can I ask why?” He wants to scream that it’s none of her business. Instead, he smiles, hoping it doesn’t look like a sneer.

“Irreconcilable differences. He wears straight-leg, mid-range denim.” He gives a shimmy and gestures at his Balengelica sweater. “Can you imagine?”

“And when did the relationship end?” The weight of the question rocks him and involuntarily he takes half a step backwards. How many more questions does she have about his relationship with Patrick?

“Yesterday.” His voice is barely audible.

“I’m sorry.” Detective Lee’s tone conveys the opposite of sympathy. “When did the two of you become involved, before or after he brought the painting to you?”

“After.” He bites back the tremor that threatens to comes out in his voice at the reminder of Patrick’s betrayal. He’d go to jail before he cries in front of these people.

“Mr Brewer is a wealthy man now.” He tries to relax his clenched jaw, knowing they’ll be looking for any sign that he’s distressed by this conversation. Hopefully, they’ll chalk up his reaction to the failure of his relationship rather than a proclivity for art fraud.

“Yes?” One word answers seem safest. 

“So he probably doesn’t need someone whose money is inaccessible.” If there’s any novelty in his experience with Patrick, it’s that Patrick’s desire to use him for money didn’t put a dint in his credit card. Just in his reputation. And in your heart, the traitorous voice inside whispers again.

“Is that a question?” He’ll be damned if he will document the times he’s been used for his money for these people.

Detective Lee smiles at him. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just an observation.” She shuts her notebook with a snap. “I think that’s all for now.” She and Detective Butani are at the front door when she turns back. “Mr Rose? Maybe don’t leave town.”

As the door closes behind them, he collapses into his chair. He hadn’t expected the police to be suspicious so quickly. He rubs at his temples before searching in his desk drawer for a tylenol. This is very bad. He curses at Patrick even as part of him wishes he was here so they could figure things out together.

He rests his head against the back of the chair, rage and grief warring inside him. Patrick’s deception gnaws at him even as the memory of a pair of warm brown eyes haunts him. He needs a drink. He pulls out his phone to text Stevie.

**David:** Are you busy tonight?  
 **Stevie:** Is Patrick not available?

He types and erases several replies. 

**David:** It didn’t work out.

He’s three drinks in by the time Stevie meets him at the bar. The pain is receding but there’s still a dull ache in his chest. He orders another polar bear shot.

“Easy there, tiger. What’s going on?” Stevie drapes the strap of her bag over the back of the stool and gestures to the bartender.

“We’re not doing ‘tiger’.” He tries to scowl at her but he can tell he’s not pulling it off. He looks away, not sure what she’ll see in the back of his eyes.

“So what happened with Patrick? Seems like things were going pretty well last week.” Stevie’s been his friend through numerous break-ups and short-term relationships, but she seems surprised. “I thought you guys were a good fit.”

Had it only been yesterday? It seems like an eternity had passed since he’d stumbled onto Patrick’s little secret. “He, uh…” He downs the shot, setting the glass on the table with the other three. “The painting’s a fake.”

“What?” Stevie stares at him, her mouth open. “Okay. And Patrick’s mad that you didn’t figure it out before it sold?”

“Not exactly.” He looks around for the bartender. He needs to drink until he can’t feel anything. “Patrick painted it. The painting.”

“Oh my god, David. You have to tell the police.” 

He laughs bitterly. “I can’t tell the police. The police think I did it. They know about the gallery, our relationship. They think we’re in it together.”

There’s a long pause. Stevie signals to the bartender. She’s more shaken than he’s ever seen her. “Two more polar bear shots, please.”

“Did you talk to him? Ask him why?” The bartender brings the shots and Stevie hands one to him. He downs it as quickly as he can, the room is swimming delightfully.

He shakes his head. “What was I supposed to say? Tell me why you set me up because I think I’m in love with you?” He winces, wishing he could take back the words.

Stevie looks at him carefully. “Are you?”

He presses his lips together and nods. “Yes. Yep. Pretty sure. But I can’t trust him. And I think that matters this time.”

***

He hasn’t been to the gallery in three days. He’s barely been out of bed in that time. The visit from the police was the last straw. He can’t summon the energy to care about the gallery, about Patrick, about himself. He stares at the ceiling, trying to block out the pair of brown eyes he sees everywhere. 

He chases Patrick’s words around and around in his mind. 

_I didn’t mean to fall in love with you._

“I didn’t mean to do that, either.” He whispers the words to the empty room, tears sliding down his temples, trickling along his hairline. The pain lodges in his chest. An immovable weight that’s branded with Patrick’s name. He’d thought it would get smaller, easier to bear, but it’s growing larger. 

He doesn’t know much about love, but he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to feel like this. If you love someone, you don’t set them up as your patsy in your art fraud scheme. There’s nothing Patrick can do to make this right. He’d thought he’d been left and broken up with in every way possible but Patrick has found an entirely unique way to destroy him. The thought makes him sob, thinking about what could have been if a five million dollar fake painting hadn’t destroyed everything between them. 

_I didn’t mean to fall in love with you._

Anger comes with the words this time. Patrick had known what he was doing. From the moment they’d met, he’d known. His rage eases the pain a little, forging it into something white and hot that he can feel beneath his skin. Patrick had never cared at all. David had been a means to an end, an easy way to make a lot of money. 

It was a con from start to finish. Patrick had seen that David was interested in him and used that to his advantage. He’d been fooled by a pair of warm brown eyes and some good-natured teasing.

_I didn’t mean to fall in love with you._

Well, you did, he thinks to himself. I hope it hurts you as much as it hurts me. 

There’s a pounding on the door. He turns his head in that direction as though that will be enough. The pounding stops. He closes his eyes. He can hear keys in the lock and the door springs open.

“Oh, you are alive.” Stevie stands in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Why haven’t you answered my texts?”

“Go away.” He knows she won’t. 

“No.” He glares at her, but Stevie has always been immune. He reaches for his phone to check the time, it’s just after six o’clock. There are eleven text messages, all from Stevie’s number.

“I’m going up to pick up randoms tonight and you’re coming with me.” Stevie’s voice is firm, but he whines anyway.

“I don’t want to pick up randoms.” The idea makes him slightly queasy. Randoms won’t have whisky-colored brown eyes and a wide smile.

“Then you can watch me pick up randoms.” She rifles through his closet. 

“What are you doing?” She knows he hates it when other people touch his clothes. She paws through the hangers, flipping through his designer sweaters. “Be careful with those, they’re worth more than your car.”

Stevie rolls her eyes as she throws his Givenchy baby’s breath sweater onto the bed. “Choosing your outfit, otherwise we’ll be here all day while you decide.” 

“Get out of the way.” He pulls aside the covers and pushes her away from the closet, pulling out his tightest jeans and black leather jacket. “I’m not wearing that to pick up randoms.”

“I thought you didn’t want to meet someone?” Stevie smirks at him.

“It’s important to dress the part.” The clothes make him feel good, as though he could pick someone up if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t.

Forty-five minutes later they’re sitting at the bar at their usual club. He sips his vodka soda. The bar is half empty, a few people are scattered at the tables by the door and a group of frat boys are laughing and clowning at the pool table. He’s tempted to start on the polar bear shots again, but he doesn’t want to be stranded here if Stevie meets someone. The bartender places a second drink in front of Stevie and nods at a table in the corner. A dark-haired man raises his glass to Stevie. She looks at David questioningly.

“Go on.” One of them should have their needs met tonight.

“Are you sure?” Stevie sounds uncertain. 

“It’s fine. Isn’t this what you came for?” 

Stevie lets her gaze wander back to the man in the corner. “I’m just feeling a moment of uncharacteristic guilt for leaving you alone.”

“I’m sure that guy will make you forget about that.” 

Stevie slips off the bar stool. He watches her weave through the tables until she comes to stop at the other man’s table. She gives David a grin over her shoulder as she settles into the chair beside him. 

“Is this seat taken?” He shakes his head before he can say that he doesn’t want the company. The other man is tall, his short-sleeved shirt exposing muscular arms. Friendly blue eyes smile at him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

What the hell. Maybe Stevie was right. Maybe this is what he needs to get Patrick out of his head. “Sure.” He nods at the bartender who slides another drink across the bar. “I’m David.”

“Peter.” His stomach clenches at the name, so similar to Patrick’s. 

Peter puts his hand on David’s leg. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

He tenses at the light teasing but he doesn’t push Peter’s hand away. He nods to the corner, where Stevie is kissing the guy from earlier. “Just looking out for a friend.”

“Hmm. Looks like she’s doing okay.” Peter’s hand creeps higher. “Maybe we could step outside for a minute?”

He downs the last of his drink. “Sure. Why not?” He follows Peter outside. A vacant lot next to the bar has been converted into a tiny park, a possible strategic error on the part of some urban planner. Once they’re out of sight, Peter pulls him in, kissing him roughly. David follows along, trying to connect, but he feels like he’s half a beat behind. It’s not the same as kissing Patrick, with his playful, searching kisses. Peter’s hands grip his ass, squeezing firmly. David grinds against him, hoping his body will take over from his brain. 

Peter’s teeth scrape along his jaw. David tilts his head back, expecting to feel lips on the spot on his neck that Patrick loves. Instead, Peter nips at the skin below his ear. It’s not what he wants and he bites back a whine of frustration. 

“God. Paa—eet—er. Fuck.” David breaks away from Peter. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

Peter’s hands fall to his sides. In the dim light, David can see the frown on his face. “Hey man, what are you playing at?” His voice is resigned rather than angry, so he’s probably not going to take a swing at David for leading him on.

David crosses his arms and sighs. “Sorry. I just had a bad breakup and I thought I was ready for this, but I’m not.”

Peter takes a step back, his shoulders slumping. “Just my luck.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Well, if you get over it, I’m here quite a bit and I’m always open for a good time with a good-looking guy like you.”

“Yeah. I...I don’t even know what I’m doing right now.”

“Hey, man. I’ve been there.” Peter claps him on the shoulder and disappears into the shadows. David takes a minute to pull his clothes straight, pressing down on his dick until his erection subsides. 

Back inside, Stevie is back at the bar, a new drink in her hand. He sits on the stool beside her. “Did you get what you came for?”

“Tad and I had a very nice time, yes.” She finishes her drink. “Where were you?”

“Being reminded that I’m still in love with someone else.” Casual sex was an old reliable friend who had abandoned him tonight. Clearly, he needs to do something else to get over Patrick.

“You have to talk to him.” He knows she’s right. Even if it means letting Patrick know how much he’s hurt him, he needs to talk to him.

“Yeah.” A beige department store suit catches the corner of his eye. He looks over, suddenly completely sober as he watches Detective Butani slip out the door of the bar. “Fuck.”

***

Back at home, he sits on his couch, head tipped back against the cushions. He knows that Stevie is right. He needs to talk to Patrick, if only to move past what has happened. He should go to Patrick’s house, demand that he tell David why he had forged the painting, why he had lied to David and used him. 

The image of Detective Butani’s off-the-rack suit leaving the bar stops him. If they were following him at the bar, what else are they doing to track his movements? Are they parked outside even as he sits here? Are they tracking his phone? He texts the one person who will know how to help him.

**David:** I need your help.  
 **David:** In person.  
 **David:** Now.

He’s still sitting on the couch when his doorbell rings two hours later. It must be near midnight but it’s sooner than he expected her to arrive. He opens the door. His sister prances inside, like a gazelle waltzing on tiny stilts.

“I’m so glad you texted me, David.” His sister’s hands dance through the air. “You don’t ask me for help nearly often enough.”

“I do ask you for help.” He follows Alexis into the living room, frowning as she tosses her coat and purse into a disorganized heap on the couch. Asking Alexis for help was a little like playing Russian roulette with an elephant, you can’t be sure what will happen but by the end of the night someone will either be shot or trampled.

“No. You don’t. You never think I’m smart enough to help you.” If anything, Alexis was too smart for her own good, but most of the time her particular combination of skills hadn’t been relevant in his life.

“Well, I’m asking now.”

Alexis sinks into a chair at his kitchen table. She braces her chin on the backs of her hands and looks at him. “What’s problem? Are you and Patrick looking to spice up your sex life? Josh Groban himself asked me for tips when he was dating Katy Perry.”

This isn’t a good idea. “Alexis...you can’t tell anyone about this.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Sometimes things just don’t click. You’re very brave to ask for advice.” Alexis taps her manicured fingers on the tabletop in front of him.

“I’m not talking about — it’s not about that.” He closes his eyes for a second. “Promise me you won’t repeat a word of this. I’m serious.” 

“Oh my god, David. What’s going on?”

He gets up so he can pace around the room. He spins to face his sister. “Promise me.”

“Fine. I promise.” Alexis rolls her eyes at him. “If I can keep the secret of Taylor Swift’s plastic surgery, I can keep your little secret.”

“Okay, this is way more important than that. I need to see Patrick.” He shakes out his hands and does another lap of the room. When he comes back, Alexis is looking at him quizzically.

“So, go see Patrick. God, David, I thought you had a real problem.” Her voice rises and he knows they’re two minutes away from bickering like three year olds. 

“I do have a real problem. I can’t go see Patrick. The police are watching me.” Saying it makes it real. The police are watching him as though he’s a common criminal like a drug dealer or a cyber stalker. He paces back and forth.

Alexis frowns at him and pauses for a second. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. Patrick…” He can’t form the words. He squeezes his lips together and tries again. “Patrick forged that painting. And the police think I did it.”

“Oh my god, David.” Alexis’s fingers dance across the table towards him. “This is so exciting.”

“It’s not exciting. He lied to me. He used me to sell his fake painting. And now I’m being questioned by the police.” His voice rises and he knows he’s almost yelling but he can’t help himself.

“It’s good you came to me, David. Tell me about the police detail.” Alexis’s hands dance across the tabletop like someone who has never seen a keyboard pretending to play the piano.

“I think there’s just two of them. They came to the gallery a couple of days ago but then tonight I saw one of them at the bar.”

“Hmm.” His sister purses her lips, considering. “The classic move is for me to distract them while you sneak out.” 

“Yeah...classic.” He decides he doesn’t want to think about the fact that his sister has multiple moves for evading the police. It was part of the reason he’d called her.

“When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow morning?” A weight he didn’t know he was carrying lifts off his shoulders at his sister’s straightforward response.

His sister pushes back her chair. “I’m staying here tonight. In case you need me.” He rolls his eyes but he reaches out to stop Alexis before she can leave the room. 

“Thanks.” Before he can take it back, he wraps his arms around her in a tight hug. After a long pause, Alexis’s arms come up around him. For a moment they hold each other and it’s just the two of them, the way it’s always been.

“Okay, David.” He can’t see her face, but he thinks she might be smiling.

***

In the morning, he watches his sister teeter across the street to the unmarked police car that’s parked across the street. She bends down to the window, her oversized sun hat blocking the agents’ view. While they’re occupied, he slips down to the coffee shop on the corner where his Uber is waiting.

The car pulls up in front of Patrick’s house. It looks exactly the same. The door is the same dark blue color, Patrick’s Toyota is parked in the driveway. So much has happened, he expects it to be different. He pays the driver and stands in the driveway for a moment. He wants to see Patrick. He wants to hear his laugh, see the spark in his eyes when he looks at David, to have him tease David in that warm way that seems like they’re sharing a joke.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, striding to the door. Before he can knock the door opens. Patrick is standing inside, arms crossed as he looks at David.

“I saw you standing there. Thought you might be looking for directions.” His tone is mocking, but it’s a bit off, as though Patrick has practiced in the mirror.

“You don’t get to tease me. Not any more.” He can’t get through this if Patrick is going to pretend that they’re friends.

Patrick sighs and he holds the door open. David pushes past him, coming to a halt by the doorway to the kitchen. Patrick closes the door and turns to face him. “What are you doing here, David?”

“I need to say some things.” Patrick motions at him to continue. For a moment, all of his words desert him and he stares at Patrick, avoiding his brown eyes lest he get stuck there and not be able to move.

“I trusted you.” His voice is faint. He crosses his arms across his chest, trying to contain the pain that’s rippling through him. He pushes more air into his lungs, willing the confidence he doesn’t feel to show in his voice. “I trusted you. But you were just using me. You probably planned to see me at the Antiques Roadshow. You knew I’d be an easy mark.” His voice is stronger now but he still can’t look at Patrick.

“That’s...that’s not true.” Patrick’s voice is shaky. “You weren’t supposed to be there. You weren’t supposed to be on the Roadshow that day.” Patrick’s words bring him up short. He’s right. They had called David in at the last minute after Jacob Trelawny had called in sick. “I…” Patrick’s voice cracks, sending an agonizing thrum of emotion down David’s spine. “I knew Jacob Trelawny would be easily fooled, so that’s why I went that day. When I saw you...I figured the game was up.”

“I guess you’re just lucky that I’m not a very good appraiser, then.” Bitterness creeps into his voice. Patrick hasn’t just broken their relationship, he’s taken away something David was proud of being good at. 

“David. That’s not true.” Patrick sounds more wrecked over David’s dismissal of his own skills than he did over David’s accusations about his machinations about the forgery. “You have to know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” He lets his eyes meet Patrick’s. There’s a well of pain inside them so deep that he could dive down and never reach the bottom. It makes the part of him that longs to rend and tear at Patrick happy to see the anguish in his eyes.

“No, I guess you don’t.” For the first time he can remember, Patrick looks away before he does. “I have no right to ask you for anything, but if I could, I would ask you to believe that of yourself.”

“Yeah. You don’t have any right.” They’re still standing in the hallway. It’s not like Patrick is going to invite him in for tea, but it makes their conversation feel even more awkward. “You used me. You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I know.” Patrick leans against the wall. He looks casual, standing there, but David can see that his body is shaking slightly. 

“Do you even have a grandmother?” Of course Patrick has a grandmother. He plows ahead, skipping past his stupid question. “It was all fake, wasn’t it? The painting, the stickers on the back, even the fucking receipt you gave me.” Patrick nods, just once. He looks like he might cry. David wants to make him. “How could you do that to me? The police are asking me questions. They think I faked the painting.” His voice has a hysterical edge to it now. Patrick winces at the mention of the police but otherwise he doesn’t move. 

“I liked you.” He resents the softness of Patrick’s voice more than he’s ever resented anything. More than he despises Sebastien for taking those photos without his permission, more than he secretly begrudges his parents for never being there when he needs them, more than he hates the people who use him for his money and laugh at him behind his back.

“That’s a pretty funny way to treat someone you like.” He spits out the words, wanting to wound Patrick for making him feel this way. 

“I wanted to see you again. So I convinced myself you wouldn’t get hurt.” Patrick sounds resigned now. He levers himself off the wall, standing in front of David with his arms crossed. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that David knows he only gets when he’s exhausted. 

“Well, that definitely didn’t work.” He lets all the pain he’s feeling flow into the words. Patrick flinches as though he’s been struck. 

“I meant it when I said I was sorry.” He can tell Patrick means the words, but it doesn’t matter. It will never matter again.

“The thing is, sorry isn’t enough.” He turns to leave, a wave of relief washing over him when he can look away from Patrick’s eyes. “Goodbye, Patrick.”


	4. I want more, impossible to ignore

It’s been three weeks, two days and six hours since he’s seen Patrick. The gallery is still struggling. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to use the money from his commission from the painting. It sits there in his bank account, taunting him every time he logs in. 

At least he has a few more clients now. Every day brings new appraisals, mostly from people who are hoping he’ll discover a treasure for them in the same way he did for Patrick. He feels like a fraud, but he does the appraisals anyway. 

The police haven’t been back and the unmarked car hasn’t been parked outside his house since the day Alexis helped him get to Patrick’s house. Still, he senses they’re still around. Or maybe he’s just paranoid. Every day he waits for the other shoe to drop, his tension winding even tighter when nothing happens.

He goes to the gallery but he can’t concentrate so he spends his time pacing around the room, pretending to plan his next exhibit. When that becomes too much, he sits as his desk, sketching aimlessly until he can close and go home. 

The framed receipt that Patrick had given him still sits on the corner of his desk, covered in blue wrapping paper. He can’t bring himself to look at it again but somehow he doesn’t want to throw it away either. Finally, he sets a stack of file folders on top of it. Even out of sight, he can feel it there, lurking.

The invitation to the new Picasso exhibit opening at the Art Gallery of Ontario leans against his computer monitor. The opening is this evening. He and Patrick had planned to go together, Patrick had been excited to see world class paintings up close. He’s not looking forward to going alone, but if he’s serious about making the gallery a success, then he needs to be seen at events like this one. 

He arrives thirty minutes late. The party is in full swing, high profile donors and art collectors fill the Gallery’s lower level, their chatter nearly drowning out the tasteful string quartet. He tugs on the cuffs of his Burberry suit. He shouldn’t have come. He’s not in the mood for aimless chatter with people who have more money than sense. With a tense smile he takes a glass of champagne from one of the servers, downing it in a single gulp. Maybe the alcohol will calm the fizzing of his nerves.

It doesn’t work. After the tenth conversation congratulating him on discovering Arctic Spring, he yearns for quiet, so he heads to the second level, taking refuge in the Gallery’s collection of Canadian art. The upper gallery is empty except for a bored-looking security guard, the crowds are downstairs taking in the Picasso exhibit. He walks through the long corridor, relishing paintings by the Group of Seven and Emily Carr. Before he knows it he’s standing in front of Lawren Harris’s ‘Lake Superior.’ It’s one of Harris’s best-known works, the stylized rays of light shining down on the purply brown islands in a sea of blue water. 

The painting is stunning, but he can’t enjoy it. He stares at the blue brush strokes, trying to compare it to his memory of Patrick’s painting when there’s a soft sound beside him.

Patrick has the decency to look embarrassed at how they find themselves. He shuffles his feet awkwardly and gives David an uncertain smile. “I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“Looking for tips on your technique?” Once the words would have been light and teasing, but now he wants them to sting.

Something flashes across Patrick’s face. A hint of laughter followed by intense sadness before a mask drops over his features. “Just enjoying some beautiful art.”

“Can’t you do that at home?” He can’t stop digging at Patrick, the pointed barbs a replacement for the things he wants to scream at him.

“Mmm.” Patrick moves to the next painting, Alex Colville’s Soldier and Girl at Station. The 1950s modernist style contrasts with Harris’s landscapes, but the two paintings fit together nonetheless.

“Why did you do it?” He keeps his eyes riveted on the painting, not wanting to risk the loss of control that might occur if he looks at Patrick’s face.

Patrick lets out a sharp breath. “David…” The single word caresses his skin, a reminder of the syllables Patrick had once whispered into his skin. He rolls his shoulders, trying to chase away the sensation.

“I need to know why. What was worth so much?” He hopes Patrick will think it’s anger not despair that’s making his voice tremble. Patrick glances sideways at him but he doesn’t speak right away.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. David has to strain to hear him, even in the empty gallery. He fights the urge to step closer, tightening his arms across his chest as though that will anchor him in place. “My dad was going to lose his business. I needed to make sure he and my mom would be okay.” 

The answer eases some of David’s anger. It’s a desperate thing to do. Maybe even a good thing to do. It’s a Patrick thing to do. It’s stupidly noble. He wants to yell at Patrick again, but for different reasons than before.

“Was it worth it?” He has to know. Does Patrick count him as an acceptable sacrifice in his plans? He needs to see Patrick’s face now, but he’s still staring straight ahead at the paintings.

“Are you asking me to me to weigh our relationship against my parents’ future?” Patrick looks at him now, the corners of his mouth flicker upwards.

It sounds impossibly selfish, but he doesn’t care. “I...yeah, maybe.”

Patrick gives him a long look. His eyes are soft and sad, looking into them makes David’s heart hurt. “No,” he whispers, “It wasn’t worth it.”

Patrick gives him a quick half smile, the corners of his mouth turning down. He turns and walks back down the length of the gallery. David stands in front of the Lawren Harris painting, watching him go until he turns the corner and disappears out of sight.

***

Detective Lee is waiting outside the gallery when he arrives in the morning. Nervous energy runs through him, quick and electric. He holds the door open. “After you.”

“I just have a few more questions and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She’s even more intimidating without her cheerful partner. 

“Fine.” He sets his bag behind his desk. He starts to sit before changing his mind and awkwardly bobbing back to his feet. His thoughts chase in circles as he spins the rings on his right hand. What does he have to do to get her to leave him alone? 

“The last time we spoke you claimed that you and Mr Brewer were no longer in a relationship.” Lips pursed, Detective Lee stares at him intently.

“That’s right.” Maybe he should turn Patrick in and deal with the consequences. But after their conversation last night, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to hurt Patrick anymore.

“We spoke to a witness who said they saw you together at the Art Gallery last night.” Detective Lee’s voice is relaxed, as though she’s talking about the weather. 

“We ran into each other and exchanged a few words. That’s all.” He gives into temptation and sinks in his chair. As he cranes his neck to look at Detective Lee, he knows it was a mistake. He leans back, trying to appear as relaxed as possible.

“The person we talked to said you were having a pretty intense conversation.”

He raises a single eyebrow in her direction. “Most of my conversations with my exes are pretty intense.” It has the advantage of being the truth, he can’t recall having a civil conversation with any of his exes, even in public.

Detective Lee tilts her head to one side, acknowledging his point. “Ever see any forgeries in your gallery?” He narrows his eyes at her sudden change of topic but doesn’t respond. “It happens, right? Someone brings you a painting that’s too good to be true?”

“I think you’ve been watching too many true crime shows.” He laughs, wincing to himself at the inauthentic sound. “The art world is very boring.”

“But not for you, right?” Detective Lee’s eyes fix themselves to his. He fights the urge to push his chair back. “You’ve had quite the exciting year.”

“I guess.”

“Mmm.” She consults her notebook, making a quick note of something. Her eyes drop to his journal, spread face open on the desk. “Did you draw that?” 

He’d been sketching yesterday, a quick study to take his mind off of everything. His rendering of the street outside the gallery was technically proficient, even if it wouldn’t grab a true art connoisseur. 

He flips the journal closed. “Yes.”

Detective Lee runs her eyes along the top of his desk, no doubt searching for other hints of his art forgery career. Her eyes skip over the folders covering the receipt but they don’t linger. She shuts her notebook with a snap. “I’ll be in touch if we have more questions. Don’t…”

“...leave town. I know.” He lets out the breath he’s been holding and perches on the edge of his chair. Will this nightmare ever be over? Cursing Patrick, he opens his journal and flips back a page, grateful Detective Lee hadn’t seen the sketch of Patrick that he’d completed from memory the morning before.

***

The phone call comes at two in the morning. He fumbles with his phone, nearly dropping it before he can answer the call. 

“David.” His sister’s voice is high and pitchy, laced with fear in a way he’s heard too often. “I need your help.” It’s been six months since her last call and he’s finally been able to sleep without waking up in the middle of the night, filled with dread. Six months ago it had been the drug lord in the Philippines. No, that was the time before. Six months ago it had been the jumped up son of a wannabe Italian mobster.

“Which embassy?” He rolls over, trying to find the switch for the lamp. He squints when it comes on, searching for a pen and paper without his contacts. 

“No. It’s, um, Stavros. I’m on his yacht.” He gives up on searching for a pen and pushes himself up so he’s sitting against the headboard. It’s cold in his bedroom and he shivers, pulling the comforter more tightly around his chest.

“Alexis. Why would you do that? You know he’s bad news.” He’d always assumed something bad would come out of Alexis’s relationship with Stavros, Alexis had never known when to leave well enough alone.

“I know. The yacht was docked. We weren’t supposed to go anywhere.” Even though she can’t see him, he rolls his eyes anyway.

“Ugh. How much does he want?” The irony of Stavros, with his billion dollar fortune trying to shake him down for a couple of million dollars isn’t lost on him.

“That’s just it.” Alexis’s voice gets even higher. “He wants you to get an Alex Colville painting for him. He says you’re a bigshot in the art world now, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I can’t do that. I wouldn’t even know where to find one, nevermind buy it.” 

There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone. He can hear Alexis breathing, short panting breaths that make his hands clench. “What about…” She stops and then takes a deep breath and starts again. “What about Patrick?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“It’s not like it would go to auction. It’s just for Stavros.” Her voice has the same inflection that she’d used when she was six to convince him to steal cookies from the kitchen.

“Alexis. The police talked to me again today. I can’t just go around asking people to forge paintings right now.”

There’s a long pause. “I’m scared, David.” Alexis’s voice is small and tinny. No matter how many foreign prisons or drug lord encampments she’s escaped from, she’s never admitted to being scared before. He closes his eyes and whispers a silent prayer to some god he’s never known.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” He hates this. For a quick second, he hates his sister for putting him in this position, for her selfishness, for assuming that he’ll always be there to rescue her when she needs it. He doesn’t care that he sounds sharp and unhappy. “Text me every day, okay?” 

Alexis sounds subdued, but her breathing has evened out. “I will. I promise.”

He ends the call and rests his head on his bent knees, his phone still gripped in one hand. He has an excuse to see Patrick now. An excuse to hurl himself back into the maelstrom of hurt and longing that he’s ground down over the past few weeks. He wants it so badly. He wants to see the spark in his brown eyes, to hear his laughter. Assuming that Patrick will even talk to him, that he won’t slam the door in his face.

With a sigh, he gets out of bed to make some coffee. Between thinking about Patrick and worrying about Alexis he knows he won’t be able to get to sleep.

***

He checks carefully for unmarked police cars before he leaves his house in the morning. There’s nothing. Maybe the police have given up on the case. Not likely. He finds himself standing on Patrick’s doorstep at eight o’clock in the morning. When he rings the doorbell, Patrick answers it far too quickly for such an early hour.

“David? Are you okay?” He knows he looks exhausted, the concealer he’s applied isn’t enough to hide the bags under his eyes. Patrick steps aside so he can come inside. “It’s early. For you, that is.”

He’s too worried about Alexis to rise to Patrick’s teasing. “I need your help.”

“Anything.” Patrick leads him back to the kitchen. The morning sunshine lights up the room, making it feel warm and friendly. He remembers the last time they were in this room together, laughing as Patrick made cocoa. Even as he feels a pang of grief, he feels safe here. He takes a seat at the island. Patrick pours him a cup of coffee and sets a muffin in front of him. 

“You don’t have to…”

“Did you have breakfast?” He shakes his head. The muffin looks delicious, he can smell blueberries and lemon. His stomach growls. “So eat. I know you’re hungry.” He breaks off a corner of the muffin. It tastes as good as it smells, the lemony dough melting on his tongue. 

Patrick leans against the opposite counter, as though he’s afraid of what he might do if he comes too close to David. His arms are braced on either side of him and his hair is tousled. David wants to forget everything that’s happened and ravish him, right here in the kitchen.

“Why are you here, David?” The words are soft and gentle. 

The scone turns to ashes in his mouth. “It’s Alexis. Stavros is holding her hostage on his yacht.”

Patrick frowns at him. “I appreciate your faith in me, but I think raids of pirate yachts are outside my area of expertise.” He imagines Patrick scaling the side of Stavros’s yacht like a character in an adventure movie, his blue shirt open at the throat, dripping with water...he shakes his head to drive away the fantasy.

“No. He, uh, he wants a painting. Alex Colville’s Woman with Revolver. And there’s no way I could get it in time, even if I could afford to buy it.” He stops talking. The look on Patrick’s face is indecipherable. “I need your help.” 

“What are you asking?” Patrick crosses his arms. “I think I need you to say it.” 

It’s not like Patrick to rub his face in this. But then again, how well does he really know him? He looks down at his plate, picking up the last few crumbs with his finger. “I need you to to paint a fake for me.” He says it so quietly that he’s not sure that Patrick hears him. There’s a long pause. He looks up. Patrick looks sad, the way he had when David had discovered his studio.

“Okay.” Patrick pushes himself away from the counter and picks up David’s plate, putting it in the sink. He tops up David’s coffee.

“That’s it?” He’d expected more of a fight. Or at least a sarcastic remark about David’s willingness to compromise his morals for someone other than Patrick.

“Did you think I would say no?” Patrick slides the coffee pot back onto its base. On the surface, he sounds amused, but the look on his face is serious.

“I...I don’t know. Maybe.” He had assumed that Patrick would turn him away. No one else in his life had ever gone an extra inch for him, let alone the miles he was asking from Patrick.

“David.” The tenderness in Patrick’s voice brings him up short. “I’m sorry. About before. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. So if this goes even a little way towards making that right, well…” He shrugs and trails off. 

He can’t deal with Patrick’s regrets about what happened. Moving on is hard enough without knowing that neither of them has what they wanted. Patrick’s voice breaks into his reverie. “How long?”

“Mmm?” He’s still processing everything Patrick has said. 

“How long do I have?” Patrick is all business now, as though the previous part of the conversation never happened.

“A week? Maybe ten days.” Sooner would be even better, he doesn’t want to leave Alexis on Stavros’s yacht any longer than he has to.

“What? David, it took me two years to paint the Harris.” For the first time since he came to Patrick’s house, he seems a bit alarmed.

“I know. But this doesn’t have to fool the authenticators. It just has to fool Stavros.”

“All right. I might have something. C’mon.” Patrick gestures for David to follow him into the house. He knows where they’re going, had expected they would end up here, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Patrick opens the door and they step inside.

He hadn’t appreciated how beautiful Patrick’s studio is. Floor to ceiling windows line the far end of the room, looking out over a backyard filled with trees and flowering shrubs. Sunlight streams inside making the rich colors of the paintings pop. On the other walls, paintings hang so close together there’s barely space between them. Now that he can examine them more carefully, he can see that most of them aren’t as good as the Harris painting, small flaws make them easily discernible as forgeries. 

In the middle of the room, an Emily Carr and a Mary Pratt catch his eye. They’re a higher quality than the others, the colors more vibrant and the detail exquisite. Given the opportunity, he could sell both of them easily as originals. 

While he’s been staring at the walls, Patrick has been flipping through a stack of partially finished canvases in the corner of the room. He stops when he feels David looking at him. His eyes are sad, but there’s a hint of defiance as well. He looks at David for a long moment before turning back to the unfinished paintings. After a moment, he pulls one out of the pile and shows it to David.

“I’ve got this Colville canvas. I started it, but didn’t finish it. The materials are period-appropriate, though.”

The painting has barely been started. A rough sketch and a few strokes of paint are visible on the front. Still, he trusts that Patrick knows what he’s doing. 

He hands the canvas back to Patrick. “Okay. I trust you.” He regrets the words as soon as he says them. A mixture of doubt and regret flashes across Patrick’s face. “I, um, I should go.”

“You could stay.” Patrick is looking at the canvas, avoiding David’s eyes. The tips of his ears are pink, the only sign of how badly he wants David to agree.

“Okay.” The word is quiet, he can’t make it any louder. But when Patrick looks up at him, he’s smiling, the wide, toothy smile that means he’s truly happy. 

He approaches the couch next to Patrick’s easel with trepidation, not knowing what mix of paint or other transferrable substances might wait to contaminate his clothing. 

Seeing his hesitation, Patrick laughs. “It’s probably fine, I never sit on it. But hang on a second.”

Patrick returns a minute later, a large fleece blanket bundled in his arms. He stretches it out to cover the couch, raising an eyebrow at David. “Okay?”

“Thanks.” He sits in the middle of the couch, feeling awkward as Patrick bustles around at his easel, arranging brushes and paints for easy access. He pulls down a binder from a shelf beside him, flipping through until he finds a photo printout of the painting. He pulls it out and tapes it to the corner of the easel.

Patrick settles onto the high-backed stool in front of his easel. With a few quick strokes, he adds some pencil lines to his original sketch, comparing it to the photo as he goes. 

“How did you learn to paint, anyway?”

Patrick glances at him quickly before looking back at the painting. “Remember what I said about taking a class at the community centre? I was telling the truth.”

“You learned to do this by painting pictures of sunsets with a bunch of grandmothers?”

“Age discrimination is incorrect.” Patrick grins at him for a second as he rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s not like there’s a class in art forgery.” Patrick puts down his pencil and tilts his head at the painting. “I took more classes at the art college, but that’s where I started.” He adds some paint to his palette, mixing the colors together until he gets the shade he wants. He strokes a splash of yellow onto the white canvas.

“So why…?” He wants to ask why Patrick had moved from art classes to art forgery but he doesn’t know how to ask the question. Patrick glances at him again, his lips quirking at the corners.

“Why did I start faking paintings?” He adds more yellow paint, an indistinct form is taking shape. “I’m a very good technical painter but when it comes to composition...I don’t have a good eye. It was just fun to start, and then...” 

“...and then you needed the money.”

The smile fades from Patrick’s face. “Yeah.”

The conversation dies. Patrick focuses on the painting, blocking in the colors he’ll build the final picture from. David rests his head against the back of the couch. It’s soothing watching Patrick paint, the intense concentration on his face as he mixes the colors and applies them to the canvas. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

**Alexis:** What did Patrick say?  
 **David:** He’ll do it.  
 **Alexis:** Stavros says he’ll meet you at the port on Tuesday  
 **David:** Okay.   
**David:** Don’t forget to text me tomorrow!

Patrick is singing under his breath, David can just make out a few of the words that sound vaguely familiar. _...I call you when I need you..._ David curls up on the couch, tucking a cushion under his head. Patrick’s paintbrush is moving with slow steady strokes in time to Patrick’s singing. _...give me everything I need..._ He’s been awake since two in the morning and exhaustion finally catches up with him. He closes his eyes, letting the soft murmur of Patrick’s voice lull him to sleep.

“David.” The voice is gentle in his ear. He forces his eyes open. Patrick crouches on the floor beside the couch at eye level with David. His hand rests on David’s shoulder from where he’s shaken him awake. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He’s smiling at Patrick before he can restrain himself. Patrick smiles back at him, soft and sure. He lifts a hand to cup Patrick’s cheek and Patrick closes his eyes, leaning into David’s touch. Reality crashes down around him. He pulls his hand away like he’s been burned, struggling to sit up. “I have to go.”

Patrick stands up and steps back to his easel. He picks up a paintbrush, rubbing the bristles back and forth against his thumb. “Come back tomorrow?”

He bites his lips together. He shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea. “Yes.” 

It takes Patrick five days to finish the painting. David comes by his studio every day, sometimes for fifteen minutes, sometimes to spend the afternoon. Mostly he sits and watches Patrick paint, the rhythm of Patrick’s brush taking away his anxieties about Alexis. Patrick always sings as he paints, little snatches of song that float under David’s skin, soothing him like a warm blanket.

He’s sitting on Patrick’s couch on Saturday afternoon, sprawled sideways as he scrolls on his phone. It feels very domestic, sitting here as Patrick paints. Across the room, Patrick’s humming stops and he stands up from his stool, tilting his head back and forth as he considers the painting. He puts down his paintbrush. “It’s done.”

A wave of disappointment crashes over him. He wants to stay here forever, safe in Patrick’s studio. He levers himself off of the sofa and comes to stand beside Patrick, careful not to get too close for fear of stray smears of paint.

Patrick’s technique is indistinguishable from Colville’s. The soft, yet crisp lines show the naked woman standing at the top of the stairs, a revolver in one hand. She’s lit from below, her back in shadow. It’s a beautiful painting, although he’s never loved Colville’s surrealistic style. 

“I need to research the stickers for the back.” Patrick pulls off the apron he’s been wearing to protect his clothes and hangs it on a hook beside his easel. “And age the wood a little. But otherwise, it’s done.”

He looks tired. The crease is back between his eyebrows. David longs to rub away it with his thumb. A tiny smear of white paint decorates one cheek.

“Okay.” He doesn’t know what to do now. All he’s done this week is spend time with Patrick, watching him paint. To not be able to come back tomorrow feels like a loss. “I’ll, um, I’ll come back on Monday to pick it up.”

“No.” Patrick puts his brushes into the empty jam jar of water that he has on the table by his easel. His face is set. “I’m not letting you meet with Stavros by yourself.”

“Okay.” He gives Patrick a tiny smile. Patrick is worrying his fingers together. Why is he nervous? They’ve still got three days until they have to convince Stavros the painting is real. Without warning, Patrick’s hands cup his face and Patrick is kissing him, sweet and gentle. Patrick lets him go and David’s fingers drift to his lips like a girl in a high school rom com. “Oh.”

Patrick smiles at him, but his eyes are still sad. “I’ll see you on Tuesday, David.”

***

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Patrick parks his car in the parking lot next to the freight shipyard. It’s a far cry from the more glamorous docking that most yachts use closer to downtown. Even at nine o’clock at night, the port is busy. In the bright lights he can see shipping containers being loaded on and off the different ships.

He rolls his eyes, not at Patrick, but at the ridiculousness of Stavros. “Yes. Stavros likes to have his yacht near his cargo ships when he’s in town. Says he can keep an eye on them.” 

“What does your sister see in this guy, anyway?” Patrick turns off the car lights and darkness descends around them. 

“I’m told he’s very good in bed.” He suspected that Alexis’s attraction has more to do with Stavros’ willingness to break the rules than his sexual prowess, but maybe it was one and the same.

“Ah.” Patrick gets out of the car and takes the Colville painting out of the backseat. It’s small enough that he can carry it easily with one hand. “Let’s go, then.”

He’s only been here once before when Stavros had insisted on dropping Alexis off in the middle of the night a year ago. He guides them through the maze of warehouses and small office buildings until he comes to a nondescript building at the edge of the water. 

David nods at the two hundred foot yacht that’s moored nearby. “He paid $150 million for that yacht.” 

“You’d think he could just buy his own paintings, then.” Annoyance creeps into Patrick’s voice as the stress of the situation becomes more real.

“It’s just a game.” He shrugs and reaches for the doorknob, trying not to think about what other hands might have touched it. “When you have too much money, it’s fun to try to get expensive things for free.”

Inside, the overhead lights are harsh in the concrete room. Alexis sits in the corner behind a metal desk, filing her nails. Leaning against the wall beside her, doing his best to look menacing, is Stavros. 

“David!” Alexis puts down her nail file. Despite her casual demeanor, he can see the flash of relief in her eyes. 

“Did you bring it?” Stavros’ voice is brusque, abrupt. 

Patrick sets the painting on the desk and pulls back the brown paper to expose the painting. Even in the harsh lighting the soft colors glow. Stavros yanks away the paper and flips the painting over, examining the stickers on the back before swinging it around to look at the front again. “She’s prettier than you.” He directs the words to Alexis. 

His sister doesn’t even flinch. “Drop dead.” She pushes past him to stand by the door. “Let’s go David.”

“Are we good here?” He looks at Stavros, who nods without looking at them. He and Patrick follow Alexis out the door, pulling it closed behind them.

Alexis refuses his invitation to stay over at his place, so they drop her off at her apartment before Patrick drives David home. Neither of them says anything during the fifteen-minute ride. He should open the gallery tomorrow. He hasn’t been to work since Alexis was kidnapped, spending all of his time at Patrick’s studio instead. The thought of not seeing Patrick the next day makes him clench his teeth. He’ll just have to put this behind him and try again to forget about Patrick. He braces himself to say goodbye when Patrick pulls up in front of his house.

“Thank you.” He plays with his rings, not wanting to meet Patrick’s eyes. “For helping my sister.”

“I didn’t do it for your sister.” He dares a look at Patrick, but he’s staring straight ahead through the windshield. “David...I...” Patrick lets out a deep breath. “It’s late. Can we talk tomorrow?”

Patrick finally looks at him and David lets himself smile, just a little. “We can talk whenever you like.” 

“Okay. Goodnight, David.”

“Goodnight, Patrick.” He gets out of the car, shutting the door softly behind him.


	5. You're everything to me

David can’t stop smiling. He’s been at work for three hours and he’s been smiling mindlessly at his computer for two and a half of them. He’s giddy, like he’s spent too long in the sun. He shouldn’t be this distracted, Patrick hasn’t done anything other than promise him a conversation. He’s smiling again. He forces his face to behave and goes back to his email. Seconds later, his phone buzzes with a text.

**Patrick:** Dinner tonight?

The smile is back, spreading across his face before he can contain it. A warm glow burns through him at the thought of seeing Patrick. Of maybe getting to see him again and again. He luxuriates in the hope for a moment, giving into the temptation of his fantasy of days filled with Patrick. 

He’s about to reply to Patrick when the door to the gallery opens and Detectives Lee and Butani come inside. Both their faces are serious, not even Detective Butani is smiling. As she approaches the desk, Detective Lee pulls out her handcuffs from the back of her belt. David’s eyes follow them as they dangle from her hand. The smile he’d had so much trouble controlling moments ago falls from his face as his heart sinks.

Detective Lee comes around his desk to stand beside his chair. “David Rose. You’re under arrest for art fraud related to the transfer of the painting ‘Woman with Revolver’ to Stavros Andino. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say may be used against you.” She gestures to him. His brain is caught on her words and he’s not sure what she wants. “Can you stand, please?”

He struggles to his feet, pushing the chair backwards until it crashes into the wall. It’s probably dented the paint, he thinks ruefully. He’ll have to get the entire gallery repainted. But maybe it’s past time for that, anyway. He’s tired of the antique white walls. His thoughts are spiralling into oblivion when Detective Lee clears her throat. “Hands. Please.”

He holds out his hands, staring at her numbly as she fastens the cuffs around his wrists. He should have known this was too good to be true, that Patrick wouldn’t miss his opportunity to use him to tie up the loose ends about the Harris painting. Patrick had probably seen his opportunity to use the second forgery to get him out of the way. Fool me once he thinks to himself, remembering the quick press of Patrick’s lips against his that afternoon in his studio. 

Detective Lee helps him into the back of their unmarked car, making sure his head doesn’t hit the edge of the door. It’s not his first time being arrested. There was that time Jared Leto had called the police after David had pretended to be a pizza delivery person to sneak into his party. And he can’t forget the extremely unpleasant police officer who had arrested him for petting his police horse in Central Park. But this might be the first time that he might not have enough money to buy his way out of it.

He stares out the window of the car, ignoring Detective Butani’s chipper attempts at conversation. At the police station, the man behind the desk insists on confiscating his wallet and cellphone. Detective Lee deposits him in an interview room, the door closing loudly behind her as she exits the room. They’ll probably leave him for a while to make him easier to question. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t plan on saying anything.

The room is atrocious, like a cliche of a TV interrogation room, with peeling green paint over cinder block walls. The fluorescent lights make an annoying buzzing hum, as though a herd of bees are trapped inside. Every so often they flicker, like a prelude to a horror movie. The orange plastic chair is reminiscent of a high school cafeteria, its legs are inches too short for a grown man, forcing him to hunch over the grey melamine table. The room smells like cigarette smoke and desperation. 

The handcuffs are cutting into his wrists. He can’t cross his arms so instead he slumps down in the chair as best as he can, angling his body away from the surface of the table and any residues it might contain. 

He wishes he knew what the police thought they knew about the Stavros’s painting. Had Patrick turned him in? Or was Stavros behind this? He chews on his lip as his thoughts tumble in circles. He wants to believe in Patrick. He remembers how Patrick’s voice had broken when he’d talked about making things right. Maybe Patrick will visit him in prison and they can talk about it then. 

They’ve taken his phone and there’s no clock in the room. It could be thirty minutes or five hours that he sits there, waiting for someone to return. Finally, Detective Butani comes into the room. David glances at the mirror, he knows Detective Lee will be watching. 

“I want to talk to my lawyer.” He remembers his mom giving a rare nugget of parental advice one evening as he headed out to a club. _If you get raided, dear, remember we’re paying the lawyers lots of money to do their job, so avoid unnecessary speechification._

“Well, David. I am sorry to hear that.” Detective Butani sets a styrofoam cup just out of easy reach on the table. “I thought we might have a nice chat.”

“Just my lawyer.” He stares at the other man as defiantly as possible. 

“Okay. Maybe we can talk while we’re waiting?” He shakes his head, not wanting to engage. Detective Butani sighs and picks up the coffee cup. “You’re making a big mistake.” The door shuts behind him and David is alone again.

They’ll take their time calling his lawyer, hoping hunger and discomfort will break him down. His stomach growls, an internal show of disloyalty to his plans to stay silent.

He can’t even claim ignorance this time around. He’d asked Patrick to paint the Colville painting and he was the one who’d passed it off to Stavros as the original. Combined with the detectives’ suspicions about the Harris painting, he’s in trouble. His only chance is to stay silent and hope they don’t have enough evidence for their case.

Being betrayed by Patrick the first time had been bad enough but this is too much. He shouldn’t have fallen into Patrick’s trap, spending time with him, feeling like they might be on the verge of making things right. Losing Patrick for a second time hurts even more than it had the first time. He tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, wishing he had never met Patrick Brewer.

The door to the room opens, startling him out of his thoughts. Detective Lee steps forward and removes his handcuffs. “You’re free to go.”

“I’m sorry?” He looks behind her for his lawyer, but there’s no sign of him. Something else must be happening.

“You’re free to go. Someone else has confessed to the forgery.” There’s only one other person who could confess to the forgery. Patrick. Dread fills him at the thought of Patrick confessing so that David could be released. The dread mixes with relief that he’s misjudged him. He takes a deep breath and pries himself out of his chair, stretching out his tight muscles.

He rubs his wrists, trying to ease the ache from the handcuffs. He wants to ask about Patrick, but he knows Detective Lee won’t tell him anything. He follows her out into the reception area. He’s signing for his phone and wallet when Detective Butani leads Patrick into the station, his hands are cuffed in front of him. His eyes meet David’s and he gives a half-shrug. Before David can say anything, he’s gone, the door to the interview room closing behind him. 

He stares at the closed door long enough that the clerk behind the desk clears her throat warningly. He thrusts his wallet into his pocket, already texting as he walks out of the door of the station. 

He messages his lawyer, telling him to represent Patrick for as long as he needs him. His mind is racing. Patrick has sacrificed himself. He can’t let Patrick take the fall. A month ago, even a week ago, he would have walked away. Now, he needs to do something different. 

He stands on the steps of the station, considering. It has to be something dramatic, something that will take the pressure off of Patrick without turning it back on to himself. There’s only one person he knows that has the right mix of skills to make that happen. He texts his sister.

**David:** I’m coming over.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s ringing the doorbell of his sister’s apartment. Alexis answers the door, an annoyed look on her face. “This had better be quick, David. Zac Ephron is coming over.”

“Tell him to cancel. This is more important than Zac Ephron’s booty calls.” He waits until the door closes behind him, just in case someone has followed him. “Patrick’s been arrested.”

“Because of the painting you sold?” Alexis is tapping out a message on her phone, presumably telling Zac Ephron to make other plans for the evening.

“No. Because of Stavros. They arrested me this morning and then Patrick turned himself in and took the fall for me.” He still can’t believe Patrick has done that. He’s not used to people doing anything for him, let alone turning themselves in to the police.

“Oh my god, David.” For once Alexis seems genuinely shocked. “That poor, brave buttonface.”

“I’m not letting him take the fall for your pirate boyfriend.”

“Stavros isn’t my boyfriend. Anymore.” Alexis’s hands flutter through the air. “He must have suspected you gave him a fake. And then he wanted revenge because I wouldn’t go to Singapore with him.”

“You were going to Singapore?” His voice rises. The last thing he needs right now is to be distracted by his sister’s exploits. 

“No, David. That’s what I said.” Alexis scoffs at him as though he’s being particularly slow to keep up.

“So what do we do?” If anyone can help him, Alexis can. He just has to keep reminding himself that she’s probably been in this situation before.

“This is just like that time I helped that Saudi princess escape to Vancouver. We just need some burkas and half a dozen fake passports.”

“Okay, this is nothing like that. How is that going to help Patrick?” Asking Alexis for help was a bad idea, but it’s the only one he’s got.

Alexis taps her fingernails on the counter. “I have an idea.”

***

He carries the Colville painting into the police station, praying that his plan will work. He stops at the front desk. “May I see Detective Lee, please? I have information relevant to her case.” He sets the painting against the counter, praying no one will notice the fresh paint in the bottom left corner. 

He’d phoned Stavros last night from Alexis’s apartment, demanding a meeting at a wine bar downtown to discuss how they could resolve the ‘unfortunate mix-up’ over the painting. He’d spent three hours and four bottles of the bar’s best vintage pretending that his art dealer had sold him a fake that he had unwittingly passed on to Stavros. He wasn’t sure if Stavros believed him and it was obvious that he didn’t care, but that wasn’t why David had invited him there.

While Stavros was occupied, Alexis had snuck onto his yacht, stealing back the painting. He’d painted Patrick’s signature onto the bottom corner of the painting fifteen minutes before bringing it into the station.

“David Rose.” Detective Lee’s voice comes from behind him. “Why don’t you bring your painting and come on back.”

He sets the painting on top of the interview room table, trying not to wince as the door bangs shut behind him. 

“What’s this, then?” Detective Lee crosses her arms and nods towards the painting. 

“It’s a copy of Alex Colville’s Woman with Revolver.” He unwraps the painting from the brown paper, the soft yellow and beige colors glow, even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“So you’re confessing to art fraud?” Detective Lee narrows her eyes at him. “I’ve got your friend Patrick in a room down the hall confessing to the same thing.”

“I’m not confessing. Patrick painted this painting.” He unclenches his jaw, trying to look as relaxed as possible. 

“And you’re turning him in? That seems cruel considering he came here to cover for you.” Detective Lee circles the table, looking at the painting from multiple angles. He steps out of her way as she comes around to his side of the table. 

“I’m not doing that either.” He gestures to the painting. “Patrick gave this to me as a gift. He even signed it.” He points to the bottom left corner of the painting, where Patrick’s name pops out at them in white paint. “There’s no crime here.”

Detective Lee’s eyes fall to signature in the corner of the painting. “So you’re saying this isn’t an authentic Alex Colville?”

“Of course not. The original is in a private collection somewhere. Can you imagine?” He laughs loudly, sure that Detective Lee will catch on, but she’s focused on the painting. 

“Stavros Andino claims you sold him a fake version of this painting.” 

“Does he? Perhaps you should ask him to provide that painting so you can compare it to this one.” He twists his fingers together to keep from fidgeting. He’s so close to making this work, he just needs to stay calm for a few more minutes. He takes a slow, deep breath.

Detective Lee stares at him for a long moment. He tries not to squirm beneath her gaze. Finally, she steps into the doorway, using her black-booted foot to hold the door open. He can hear her talking to someone outside. After what’s probably five minutes, but seems like an hour, Detective Lee comes back inside, a camera in one hand. She pulls on a pair of blue rubber gloves and snaps photos of the front and back of the painting, focusing on Patrick’s signature in the bottom corner. 

“You’re free to go.” He reaches for the painting but she shakes her head. “We’ll keep the painting until we get this sorted out.”

“Okay. What about...what about Patrick?”

Detective Lee holds the door open for him. “He’s already been released.”

He’d hoped that Patrick would wait for him but the reception room is empty. The man behind the desk gives him a receipt for the painting. He walks out into the sunny day, squinting against the unexpected brightness. He fumbles for his sunglasses, wanting that barrier between himself and the world.

He’s exhausted. The intensity of the past two days hits him all at once. Where did Patrick go? They hadn’t had a chance to talk like he’d promised. Maybe now they never would. Patrick can’t be happy that their scheme to free Alexis had gone so badly. He pulls out his phone to arrange for an Uber when someone calls his name.

“David.” Patrick leans against the wall beside the door. He looks as tired as David feels. His clothes are wrinkled and his hair is rumpled from running his fingers through it. David bites his lips together. There had been a moment when he’d thought he might only get to see Patrick through the plexiglass window of a prison visiting room. 

He doesn’t want to think about everything that’s happened anymore. He doesn’t want to think about the Harris painting or the police or the money that’s sitting in his bank account. He takes two steps forward and wraps his arms around Patrick, burying his face in his shoulder. Patrick’s arms come around him, his fingers dig into his back and they sway together.

“Can I buy you dinner?” Patrick mumbles the words into David’s neck as if he’s afraid to hear the answer.

Being out in public sounds exhausting. “Does that include having takeout at your place?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it definitely does.” Patrick hugs him a little tighter, his hands are stroking soft circles into David’s back. His own fingers are clenching Patrick’s shoulders. It must be painful, but Patrick doesn’t say anything. He steps away, clasping his hands together to keep them from reaching for Patrick.

Patrick gives him a soft smile. “Let’s go home. Back to my place.”

After a short Uber ride and a call to order takeout, he finds himself curled up on one end of Patrick’s couch, a box of chow mein in one hand. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and his stomach rumbles loudly now that it’s free from the prison of nerves that has kept it contained all day. Patrick smiles at him and slides the Kung Pao chicken a little closer to his end of the coffee table.

“What are we doing?” The words hang in the air between them. It wasn’t the way he’d meant to start the conversation.

“Eating...dinner?” Patrick smirks at him, soft and familiar. He’d never thought being teased could make him feel so warm inside.

Maybe this wasn’t a good time for this. “You know that’s not what I mean.” Maybe there wasn’t a good time.

“No.” Patrick lowers his chopsticks. “What do you want to do?”

He’s thought about this. He’s done nothing but think about this. He puts his empty chow mein container on the table. “I think I want to start again.” He’s still hungry, so he picks up the chicken Patrick had passed him earlier. “I can’t...I can’t just pick up where we left off. Before. But I think I could start again.”

Patrick rolls his chopsticks between his fingers. The square tops make a faint clicking noise. “I...I want that very much.”

“Good.” He smiles at Patrick over the edge of his Chinese food container, waiting until a matching smile appears on his face. He stretches out his legs until he can tuck his feet under Patrick’s leg. Softly, as though he’s approaching a wild animal, Patrick rests his arm on top of David’s bent knees.

After dinner, he forces Patrick to watch Notting Hill. They’d watched it together, before, the first time, and the symmetry of Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant falling apart and coming back together isn’t lost on him. But he mostly wants to watch it because it’s one of his favorites. Patrick smirks at him as he cues up the movie. “You know David, we don’t have to recreate every moment exactly.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s cute that you think this is the only time you’ll have to watch this movie.” He swings around so that his head is in Patrick’s lap. After a moment Patrick’s fingers card through his hair, soft and familiar.

Exhaustion catches up to him at the same time as the paparazzi are storming Hugh Grant’s house. His eyes slip closed, the feel of Patrick’s fingers in his hair soothing him to sleep. He wakes up to find Patrick’s arm wrapped around his chest, his brown eyes looking down at him. He yawns, squinting into the overhead light. The movie is over. “I should go home.”

“Okay.” Patrick presses his hand against his cheek for a moment before leaning down to kiss him. It’s soft and chaste and he fights back a whine when Patrick pulls away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

***

A week later, he’s at the gallery when Detective Lee comes in, a brown-paper wrapped parcel under one arm. She hands it to him with her characteristic charm. “Just returning your property.” He slides open the paper, Patrick’s forgery of the Alex Colville painting stares back at him.

He narrows his eyes at her. “So…?”

“So, Mr Andino wasn’t able to provide the painting that he claimed you sold him. All charges against yourself and Mr Brewer have been dismissed.”

“Thank you.” A wave of tension leaves his body, almost making him stagger sideways.

Detective Lee regards him carefully for a moment. “I know that other painting you sold is a fake. I can feel it when something is too good to be true. But we contacted the Lawren Harris authenticators and they assured us they never make mistakes and that painting is authentic because they said so. And Sotheby’s has refused to give us the name of their buyer without a warrant, so...” She leans close to David. “You got away with it once. I wouldn’t tempt fate by trying again.”

She gives him one last knowing look before she leaves the gallery. David lets out the breath he’s been holding for weeks. He’s still sitting at his desk, staring at the Colville fake when Patrick texts him. 

**Patrick:** Come over tonight? I have a surprise.

He wraps up the painting and sets it by the door. 

**David:** Funny thing. So do I.

Patrick’s front door is unlocked when he arrives so he lets himself inside. There’s no sign of Patrick until he gets to the studio. The walls have been stripped bare, a drop cloth covers the easel. Without the art on the walls, his footsteps echo in the empty room. Through the windows, he can see Patrick in the backyard. He retraces his steps to the kitchen door, taking the Colville painting with him. 

In the backyard, Patrick stands beside a roaring fire, a beer in one hand. Beside him, a stack of paintings sits, their stretchers bent and broken. As he approaches, Patrick feeds another painting into the flames. He smiles when he sees David, closing the gap between them to give him a soft kiss. “Hi.”

“Hi. What’s all this?” In the coals of the fire, he can see the remnants of other paintings; tatters of burnt canvas cling to charred stretchers.

“Just a little spring cleaning. I think it’s time I paint my own art instead of someone else’s.” Patrick tosses another painting on the fire. The flames lick at the paint and the copy of the Emily Carr is eaten by the hungry blaze. Even though he knows the paintings are forgeries and that the originals are safe it feels like a desecration. 

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” He can feel the loss running through him. He can only imagine what Patrick is feeling about watching years of work burn up before his eyes.

“I’m sure.” Patrick’s voice is firm. “It feels right. Cathartic. Like I’m starting something new.” He throws another painting on the fire and together they watch it burn.

“Detective Lee came to see me today. She says they’re dropping all charges.” Saying it out loud brings the same wash of relief that he’d felt earlier.

“Yeah, she called me. That’s why I decided...it seemed prudent.” Patrick gestures to the last couple of paintings on the ground beside him.

“She knows about the Harris.” Beside him, Patrick goes still. “But she can’t prove it. She gave me this back.” He shows Patrick the Colville.

Patrick reaches for the Colville. “Perfect timing, I’ll just add it to the fire.”

“No.” He’s not sure why, but he puts out his hand to stop him. “Let’s keep it. As a reminder.” He sets the Colville on the patio table. Patrick looks at him for a long moment before he nods and adds the last two paintings to the fire. The flames flare up briefly, quickly consuming the new fuel. 

Patrick slips his arms around David’s waist and rests his head on his shoulder. David tilts his head to press his cheek to Patrick’s hair. His soft curls tickle but not enough that he wants to move. Patrick presses a kiss to David’s neck, making him shiver. “Stay over tonight?”

Things have been slow and careful between them, neither of them wanting to rush. He grips the back of Patrick’s neck, squeezing gently. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Patrick lifts his head and he kisses him, slowly and sweetly. Patrick’s lips are soft against his at first before they press more firmly, seeking. He can feel the question that Patrick is asking and puts just enough space between them to whisper into Patrick’s lips. “Yeah. Yes. Anything.” 

Patrick surges into him. His hand still at the back of his neck, David steadies him as their lips meet again. The kiss is more demanding than the previous one, but there’s a gentleness to it. It’s the kiss he’s wanted since he walked out Patrick’s house months ago, his heart bruised and broken. The emotional weight of it rolls up inside him, he can feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Patrick senses it immediately. He pulls away, cupping David’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears before they’ve barely fallen. “Hey. Shhh. I’ve got you.” He buries his face in Patrick’s shoulder, letting the waves of emotion crash through him. Patrick’s hands stroke his back until he’s able to lift his head. 

“Okay?” Patrick’s fingers ghost along the crest of his cheek.

“Yeah.” He leans into Patrick’s touch. “I thought I’d lost this. And I wanted it. I wanted it so badly.” He wants Patrick. He wants all of Patrick. He pulls him in, his lips hungry against Patrick’s. Patrick gives a startled ‘oh’ of surprise before he kisses David back. Patrick’s lips part for David’s tongue and he licks inside, a gasp squeaking out of him when Patrick’s tongue brushes against his. 

Patrick pulls away and his eyes are dark. Beside them the fire has burned down, the glow of the coals is reflected in Patrick’s eyes. It makes him look wild and feral. “Inside. Now.” Patrick’s voice is a low growl that goes straight to David’s cock. He grabs David’s hand, pulling him through the kitchen and down the hallway to his bedroom. 

Patrick lets go of his hand and switches on the bedside lamp. He raises an eyebrow as Patrick comes back to him. “I want to see you.” The words send a flush of heat through his body, he can feel it staining his cheeks as Patrick looks at him. 

“What do you want to see first?” He expects Patrick to make a sassy joke, but he tips David’s head forward against his. David closes his eyes, the close range intensity of Patrick’s gaze is too much.

“David.” Patrick’s voice is soft and irresistible. “Look at me.” He cracks open one eye, the smirk he was expecting creeps across Patrick’s face, followed by a spark of heat in his eyes. “I’m going to look at every part of you, David.” Patrick places a soft kiss beside his ear, his voice low. “And you’re going to like it.” He whines at the thought and Patrick’s teeth catch his earlobe, giving a gentle tug. “Just to keep things fair, I’m going to let you look at me as well.”

His whine becomes a whimper. “Yes, please.” 

Patrick presses a quick kiss to his lips, his hands sneak beneath the hem of David’s sweater, above his t-shirt. “Take the sweater off, David.”

He shivers at Patrick’s tone, lifting the sweater over his head and placing it gently on the chair beside the bed. Patrick’s eyes follow every movement, tracing the line of his arms and lingering where the thin t-shirt is tight across his chest. He’s not sure what to do with his arms. He fights the urge to cross them, playing with his rings instead. Patrick’s eyes drop to his hands before returning to his face. They’re burning, lighting David on fire.

“Do you have any idea how good you look?” Patrick’s voice is rough and broken. “You’d look good in anything. A paper bag. A shirt from Walmart.”

“Ew, that would be incorrect.” Patrick’s laughter breaks his insecurities and he runs his hands up either side of the buttons of Patrick’s shirt. Patrick is still beneath the path of his hands, his breath catching. He leans forward to whisper in Patrick’s ear. “You are wearing too many clothes.” 

Glacially slowly, Patrick’s hands come up to the buttons on his shirt. David lets his hands fall away as Patrick undoes each button, his eyes never leaving David’s. As the last button comes open, David runs his fingers down the line of Patrick’s bare chest. Patrick’s breath hisses between his teeth. With a single movement, David grasps the bottom of Patrick’s shirt and yanks it out of his jeans and off of his shoulders, tossing it on top of his discarded sweater.

Patrick’s smile is almost predatory as he stands quietly for David. David drinks him in, his sculpted biceps, the light dusting of hair between his pecs that trails down, out of sight below the waistband of his jeans. Patrick tips his head back, watching David through hooded eyes, smiling to himself as David’s eyes brush over his body. When David reaches out his hand, desperate to touch the alabaster skin, Patrick catches it between his own, stepping into David’s space. “The thing is, David…” Patrick whispers the words into the dip of his throat, just above the neckline of his t-shirt. “I promised this would be fair.” Patrick’s lips press into the hollow, making his breath catch. His voice turns to a growl. “Take the t-shirt off.” His hands belaying the urgency in his voice, Patrick tugs slowly at the hem of his shirt, releasing it from where it’s tucked into his pants.

He tosses the shirt to one side, not caring where it lands. Patrick’s fingers dance across his skin, his rough callouses scratching, making his skin quiver. Patrick presses a finger to his nipple, making him whine. “The things you do to me.” Patrick’s mouth replaces his finger and he licks across his nipple, just once. “I bet I could get off just by watching you.”

He groans at the image of Patrick falling apart as he watches David get himself off. “We could…” He swallows roughly. “We could do that.”

“Mmm.” Patrick kisses him again, just enough to leave him wanting more. “Another time. I want to touch you.” He reaches for the fastening of David’s pants, huffing with frustration at the knotted drawstring. David bats his hands away, making quick work of removing his pants and socks. 

Patrick has pulled off his jeans and underwear. Freed from his cotton briefs, his hard cock thrusts towards David. David drinks him in, his eyes greedy. Patrick stands completely still beneath David’s gaze, David envies how comfortable he is in his own skin. Patrick cups the back of his neck, kissing him almost painfully slowly, his tongue pushes into David’s mouth, once, twice. Patrick’s dick twitches against his and he groans, tipping his head back. 

“The problem is, David, that you’re still not playing fair.” Patrick voice is low and rough in his ear, his hands slip under the waistband of his underwear. “I want to see all of you.” Patrick’s hands push his underwear down and off, before stepping back and running his eyes up David’s body. It’s unbearably intimate and he wishes he had his biggest baggiest sweater to hide behind. At the same time, he never wants Patrick to look away. 

“I’ve never seen anything that looked like you.” Patrick breaths out the words. They settle around him like a soft blanket. But they come with a sliver of doubt.

“Okay, well, that could be taken multiple ways, so I might need you to say something else.”

“I don’t want to look at anyone else ever again.” Laughter lights up Patrick’s eyes. “You’ve overwritten all of my teenage fantasies. When I’m 100 years old, I will tell people about how beautiful you were and they’ll think I’m lying.”

“Okay.” He’s embarrassed again, but for different reasons. Patrick wraps his arms around him, he’s whispering in his ear, a steady stream of everything he thinks is perfect about David’s body. David isn’t sure he believes what Patrick is saying, but Patrick believes it and maybe that’s what matters. While Patrick’s distracted, he pulls him onto the bed, scrambling backwards until his back hits the pillows. Patrick’s eyes rake over him, exposing every inch of his body. He wants to cover the spread of hair on his chest, the softness above his hips, the jut of his cock. If only there was a way to hide from those brown eyes that see through him. 

“Come here.” Patrick obliges, straddling his hips and stroking his hands down David’s body. The heavy weight on top of him makes his hips twitch. Patrick grins and rolls his hips in response, leaning down to give him a messy kiss. Patrick braces his arms on either side of his head. “What do you want?” 

Everything. Anything. He’d be happy if Patrick wanted to stop right now and just held his hand for the rest of the night. Patrick rolls his hips again and he tries to focus. “I want you to…” Patrick’s cock slides along his, short-circuiting his brain. “...fuck me. God. I want you to fuck me.”

“Mmm.” Patrick kisses him again, forcing his tongue into his mouth in time with the roll of his hips. Without breaking the kiss, Patrick fumbles open the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube. He gives David one last kiss, followed by a quick peck to the end of his nose before moving down David’s body. He settles between his legs, running his hands up and down the inside of David’s thighs over and over. It’s as though Patrick’s fingers are plucking his individual nerve endings. He hasn’t even touched David’s cock and he’s moaning, squirming against his fingers, wanting more.

“Patrick…” He breathes out the word. Patrick gives one last scratch of his nails to David’s leg, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Patrick’s mouth is on him immediately, taking David as deeply as he can before releasing him again and again and again. He loses himself in the rhythm of it, his hips twitch in response and he forces himself under control. 

Patrick pulls off him with a soft pop. There’s a quiet click as Patrick opens the bottle of lube and Patrick’s finger strokes around his hole. He whines at the soft contact, bending his knees to give Patrick more room. A second finger joins the first, the two of them stroking around his rim. Patrick’s mouth finds his inner thigh, still sensitive from earlier. He sucks a hickey into the soft skin, his fingers moving relentlessly. The dual sensations make it feel like his body will fly apart. He’s panting, his breaths high and short. Just when he thinks Patrick might torture him like his forever, a single finger breaches his rim, making his hips buck in surprise. 

Patrick adds a second finger, slowly working David open. He gives a final lick to the hickey on David’s leg. From the way it stings, he knows it will be dark and purple tomorrow. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it any further because Patrick licks a line up his dick before taking him back into his mouth. His fingers are deep inside David now.

“Need you now, I’m ready, now, god, Patrick.” He’s babbling, but there must be some sense to it because Patrick sits up and fumbles with the condom, rolling it on and stroking himself a couple of times with his lube covered hand. David whines as Patrick’s fingers leave him empty, but then Patrick’s cock is there and he’s pushing into him exquisitely slowly. Patrick’s hands stroke the outside of his thighs as David adjusts. He leans down to kiss him, lips and tongue and teeth connecting. “Move, you can move.” He mumbles the words into Patrick’s mouth, his sigh turning to a moan as Patrick pulls back agonizingly slowly. He finds a rhythm that’s just fast enough to make David gasp with each stroke, tipping him inexorably slowing towards his orgasm.

Imperceptibly, Patrick is speeding up. How does he have such good control? David wants to die or explode or cast himself into the sun and Patrick is moving inside him, completely in control. He wraps his hand around his cock, matching his rhythm to Patrick’s. 

Patrick smirks at him and David thinks he’s going to kiss him again but he lowers his mouth to David’s ear. “Come for me, baby.” The words push him over the edge and he comes between them, with a low shout, Patrick follows and he can feel the heat of it, deep inside him. 

Patrick presses his lips to David’s shoulder, David can see his arms trembling as he holds himself above him. Slowly, he pulls out of David, making them both whine at the loss. Patrick disposes of the condom and pads to the bathroom, returning with a cloth and a glass of water. David’s eyes are half closed as Patrick runs the warm cloth over his body. He hears the cloth hit the hamper and a hand cups his cheek. “Have some water.”

He forces himself to sit up far enough to drink the water. Before he’s finished, Patrick has crawled under the covers beside him. He sets the empty glass on the nightstand and Patrick flips the comforter over both of them. A warm arm slides around his chest and he can feel Patrick’s breath, hot against the back of his neck as his eyes drift closed. “Goodnight, David.” 

David wakes up alone. The covers on Patrick’s side of the bed are thrown back and the sheets are cold. He blinks away the disorientation that comes with waking up in someone else’s bed and rolls over to find his phone and check the time. A cup of coffee sits on his bedside table. He presses the backs of his fingers to the mug. It’s still hot. Patrick can’t be far.

He pulls on some socks and picks up the coffee, sipping it as he leaves the bedroom. He has a good idea where Patrick has gone and the open door to the studio confirms it.

Inside the bare room, Patrick sits at the far end of the couch. An empty coffee cup rests on the floor by his feet. He smiles faintly when David comes in. Not sure how much contact Patrick wants, David sits next to him, not quite touching. He lets out a quiet breath when Patrick takes his hand, tangling their fingers together.

The walls are stark and barren. Empty hooks and picture wire are the only signs of the richly colored paintings that had decorated the walls the day before. The room feels colder now and he shivers in his light t-shirt, wishing he’d taken the time to throw on a sweater. Next to the drop-covered easel, the Colville painting rests against the wall, the faintest hint of the image peeking out from the brown paper wrapper.

“Are you okay?” He squeezes Patrick’s hand as he asks the question.

“Do you remember, at the Art Gallery, when you asked me if it was worth it?” A tiny tendril of fear lances through him. If Patrick is having regrets about giving up painting, he’s not sure what to do.

“I do.” He tries to keep the words as even as possible.

Patrick turns to look at him, a smile is flickering at the corners of his mouth. “This...” he waves at the empty walls, “...this was definitely worth it.” Patrick’s free hand cups the back of his neck, his thumb strokes David’s cheekbone as he leans over to kiss him. “Because of you, David Rose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting!
> 
> A quick note on art authentication - authenticating art is often done behind closed doors by individuals or small groups of people who have appointed themselves as experts. Their word is final and they almost never admit to making mistakes because admitting they were fooled would put all of their other decisions in question. It's very likely that collectors have fakes hanging on their walls and they will never know.


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